The Victor
by Fyrefly
Summary: #1. Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of “collateral.” VC/OC, “Origins”-style, thanks. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment! Fraught with dangerous romance and, eventually, tons of action.
1. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence and real violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: Slow start for the first half of the chapter—sorry—and a little choppy in places. But I'm not looking to fix it—not yet anyway. Also, my spellcheck has decided not to work so please forgive any spelling errors. **

**As a preface and aside, for anyone who is wondering: I am running under the assumption that, as per the comic books, Victor Creed and Sabertooth are one and the same (I know there has been some debate on this regarding the movieverse). I intend to follow the timeline of the movies fairly closely. By fan-author's rights I assume that Creed survived Ellis Island and went back to working for the government as an assassin (an allusion to the comic book), and that Logan/Jimmy, having pushd through XII and XIII: The Last Stand, has somehow gone about regaining his memories—or if not the memories themselves, then records of them. The main inconsistency, I think, is that I have Rogue still functioning as an X-man (this comes into play MUCH later), but in my little world—I don't know, maybe she never tried the Cure. Anyway, the rest of the world doesn't know it's temporary yet.**

**I also use my artistic license to assume that we can keep Liev Schreiber's beautiful, witty, dangerous version of Victor Creed, and not the shambling, oafish idiot in dirty furs from the original movie. I mean, **_**please. **_

**P.S. A short little picture book is directly quoted here. Not mine; the author's name is cited in the text. It's real cute and you should pick it up sometime if you ever see it at a library or a Hallmark. Let it work as foreshadowing for you brilliant people. :D**

**Um—this is just for fun. Please play nice. :)**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

When Victor Creed first saw her, he was on a mission to end Dean McQuay's writing career.

McQuay was a mutant writer of anti-American law. He published books and pamphlets berating the government for its anti-mutant sentiments and subsequent anti-mutant bills and laws. He was a huge proponent of mutant rights, popularized in part by his attachment to one October Morgan, a former mutant-rights activist who had somehow become an overnight martyr a few years back, and a living symbol of "hope for the future" due to her great dedication to the movement.

Creed didn't know much about Morgan, and frankly, he didn't care. The only thing he knew was that she was a close friend of McQuay, and that while McQuay's approach was nearly anarchic, Morgan was famous for broaching the topic of mutant rights with pacifism and general good works. She was not a woman only of words, but of actions, and had been famous for a time due to her personal time donated to building houses for homeless mutants, working at soup kitchens and churches that served muties alongside normal people, as well as speaking out at peacable rallies and protests. She'd been a guest performer at chairty-concerts and been a guest of honor at a few benefits, if Creed remembered the stories correctly.

Moreover, though, he was interested in McQuay. Maybe "interested" wasn't quite the right word—Creed didn't care one way or another about the man's work, or his fight for mutant rights. After all, Creed himself had earned limitless privileges through his work with clandestine segments of the federal government, and had long ago learned that it was every man for himself. He also couldn't care less about anarchy or subversion of the US government…but the fact of the matter was they were the ones keeping him in nice digs and powerful cars. If they told him "Faster, pussycat, kill, kill!"—well, he'd only be too happy to follow orders. Truth of the matter was—he loved his job.

McQuay lived at 272 North Forest Street, Apartment 6A. He was "best friends"—_how cute,_ Creed thought mockingly—with former activist October Morgan, but lived alone. He was a journalist and an anarchist, freelancing columns for major papers and magazines around the globe. Creed was a little unclear on what his power was—something about scrambling peoples' brains. Well, Creed had has his brains scrambled before. He'd had his head smashed open with a shovel once, when he was younger, and just a few years back he'd hunted down Jimmy again and found himself with three admantium claws shoved straight through his skull. He figured he could handle anything McQuay could dish out.

Plus, McQuay had a weakness. Some mutants did: their mutations gave them great strength in one place but they didn't form right in others. McQuay had some sort of series of disorders: brone fragility, craniosynostosis, propotosis, and hydrocephalus. The man had a shunt and had suffered from multiple broken bones in his past. His file said he could probably be killed just by being hit with a truck or shoved down the stairs, but Creed figured they wanted the job done right, which was why they sent him. The mutant rebel was only twenty-five years old and had to use a cane to get from place to place. He was an easy target. Creed's job was to end McQuay's work, preferably through more subtle means—which for creed, meant torture and threats. However, if that failed, the order was to terminate.

Creed rather hoped that happened.

So Creed stalked McQuay, watching him carefully, learning his habits. The man was skinny to the point of gauntness, with one leg that didn't bend right and made him look lopsided. He woke up promptly at seven in the morning and ate an egg and a bagel and a glass of orange juice. He wore dark sunglasses over his protruding eyes and nice suits. He went to work in a nice office on Twelfth Avenue every morning at nine, and went home at three, courtesy of Bus 9G. And when the fragile little man unexpectedly limped six blocks to the library, leaning on his cane and tramebling the whole time, Victor was there, following. Stalking.

Hunting.

He slipped in to the library a few minutes after McQuay, watching as the frail man carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs. A cute librarian paused and stared at him over a stack of books on the counter, and he grinned ferally, baring fangs. She jolted and blushed, turning hurriedly back to the books she was checking in. He could smell her fear from where he stood, and he took a moment to savor the scent of it.

And with that inhalation, he caught another scent: feminine, soft, inviting.

He had no way of knowing that it would be his undoing.

"Last week, when I asked you what you wanted me to read this week, do you remember what you asked for?"

He followed the voice, which sounded full of barely-repressed laughter, and peered around one of the columns in the library. There was a sea of children on the floor, mutant and normal alike, intermingled with each other. He could see that some of them had pointed ears, or furred faces, or animalian noses, and some of them were clearly simple homo sapiens.

Hands shot into the air and the young women in the middle of the group smiled, hr eyes curling into screscents of laughter. Her hair was a shiny mop of tangled waves, hair more gold and copper than blond, and her eyes were dark and fathomless. She was wearing a white tank-top and black pin-striped shortsand little white heels. Her legs went on forever. He recognized her immediately from the picture in McQuay's file: October Morgan.

"Go ahead, Lindsay," October said. "Do you remember what you guys asked for?"

"Romance and dinosaurs, Toby," the little girl said, practically boucning in her seat on the floor. "We wanted romance and dinosaurs!"

October—Toby—laughed, tosing back her hair out of her eyes. "So you did. Do you think I got what you asked for?"

"No!" the kids chorused loudly. Creed winced. Weren't the brats supposed to be quiet in a library?

"But what do I tell you guys? Marcus, what did I say?"

A little boy answered. "You said there's a book for every—every _interest,"_ he recited dutifully, grinning. He had freckles and mottled hair that looked like it had been electrocuted.

"That's right. So I brought a book today called _A Lovely Love Story,_ and it's by Edward Monkton."

"Edward Monkton," the children repeated. It was obviously a lesson of some sort, combined with storytime. He leaned against the pillar and watched McQuay, watching her.

"The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice," October read dramatically. The children sat forward, rapt. "Although it was cold, he was happy in there. It was, after all, _his_ cage."

Creed flicked his eyes over to her, watching as she showed the pictures to the children.

"Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur," October continued. "The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur's cage with kind words and loving thoughts."

He snorted t the sentimental nonsense, then sniffed the air again. She _was_ beautiful, and fragile-looking. Her shoulders and legs were golden with hours spent in the sunlight, but the skin of her throat and at the edge of her shirt was so pale and tranlucent he could see the blue shadow of her veins.

She might be a fun little distraction while he was on this painfully simple mission. He could fuck her raw in front of McQuay before ripping out her throat with his teeth. The thought made his cock twitch and he grinned to himself, fangs denting his lip.

"I like this Dinosaur, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur," October read. "Although he is fierce, he is also tender, and he is funny. He is also quite clever, though I will not tell him this for now."

He watched as one of the little girls with pale, slit-pupilled eyes leaned over and whispered something in a normal boy's ear. He blushed like a tomato, but his hand crept across the floor shyly to hold hers.

The gesture did not touch Victor Creed. He knew that when the boy's friends teased him later, he would deny it entirely, and say cruel things to the little girl.

"I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur. She is beautiful, and she is different…and she smells so nice. She is also a free spirit which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur."

"But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. He is also overly fond of things. Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?"

His eyes flicked to McQuay. The skinny man had an expression of utmost peace on his face. It would be fun to scare the hell out of him later.

"But her mind skips from here to there so quickly, thought the Dinosaur. She is also uncommonly keen on shopping. Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?"

Creed turned his attention back to the woman. Her expressions played over her face as she read, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth softening in seriousness or widening in a smile.

"I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. For they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual," she read. "I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping, thought the Dinosaur. For she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises. Besides, I am not unkeen on shopping either."

Her hair tumbled over her forehead, unruly, and she brushed it back with a delicate and careless hand. He could crush that hand, if he wanted.

"Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old," she recited, turnign the book to display the pictures. The children leaned forward. "Look at them. Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs…

"And that, my friends, is how it is with love," she added, turning the page. "Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together.

"For the sun is warm. And the world is a beautiful place."

She closed the book slowly, laughing as the kids started chattering inanely.

"Tell me your favorite part. Ummmm…Brianna."

"I like the Lovely Dinosaur's red purse," said a girl, presumably Brianna.

"It was a lovely purse," the Morgan frail agreed. "And…Donald?"

"I liked that the Dinosaur was fierce," said Donald. "And I liked it when the one was dancing. That was a good picture."

"I liked the part with the flowers and the stars melting the ice!" squealed another little girl. "And the part with all the dinosaurs hugging!"

"What did we say about raising hands?" October reproved gently. "But yes, Sandra, I agree. The flowers and stars were pretty. What do you guys think about all the hugging dinosaurs? Joan?"

"Dinosaurs need hugs too," said Joan.

"Very true. What else? Rahn?"

"You can love someone even if they like shopping," a little dark-skinned boy answered, wrinkling his nose.

October laughed. "That's right. Okay, so think about the people you know who are different from you, or like different things from you. What does that say about them? Ummm…Antonio?"

A pudgy boy with straw-colored hair lowered his hand. "I think it means you should be nice to people even if they're different, like if they're fat, or they don't like hockey, or look funny, because you could maybe melt their cage or they could maybe be your Lovely Other Dinosaur."

The smile that curled over her mouth was ineffably soft. "I think that I the perfect way of stating it, Antonio. Does anyone else have any other ideas?"

The kids were quiet, a few of them whispering amongst each other.

"Very well," the Morgan woman said, smiling indulgently. "What shall I find for you next week? Umm…who hasn't chosen yet? Darla, put down your hand—you chose three weeks back; I remember. Um…Devon?"

"Tigers," the boy said firmly, his eyes lighting up.

She smiled. "Tigers it shall be. And…Marcie?"

The girl named Marcie smiled shyly. "A flower," she whispered.

A smile broke out beatifically on the woman's face. "A flower it is then. How lovely, Marcie."

The kids scrabbled to their feet, a clutter of high-pitched conversations, and shouts of "Bye, Toby!" and "See you next week, Toby!" ringing out over the library floor.

Creed watched as McQuay started to rise, and he moved over to the man stealthily, gripping his shoulders firmly. McQuay choked out a gasp and sat heavily in the seat, his frail bones bending and bowing under the pressure of the assassin's hands.

"Well hello, my fine friend," Creed purred mockingly. "Let's talk a bit, shall we?" He squeezed the man's shoulders painfully.

"Who are you?" McQuay demanded, a little breathless from the pain, turning his dark glasses up to look at the main. Creed could see the faint shape of the man's eyes behind the glasses, and he watched them widened as he took in the size of his aggressor.

"The name's Creed," the big man said conversationally, baring his teeth in a savage grin. "And let's just keep this quiet, okay, kid? Recent evidence aside—" he gestured briefly to the dissipating crowd of children— "I always thought libraries were meant to be quiet places."

"Dean!" A feminine voice rang out. Both men turned, watching the blond woman jog toward them. "It's so good to see you. I'm so glad you made it! Who's your friend?" she added expectantly, turning to Creed and rocking on her heels.

McQuay opened his mouth to answer but Victor squeezed his shoulder warningly. The bones ground together dangerously, making the man's lips tighten and grow white. "Hey, princess," Dean said after a moment, his voice a frightened rasp. "This is—"

"The name's Creed," Victor repeated, a dangerous smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He flashed a fang. "Victor Creed."

She didn't flinch, her eyes smiling, her face open and wlecoming. She thrust out a hand to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Creed. Do you work with Dean-o?"

"Dean-o?" Creed repeated, smirking. He took her hand in his and engulfed it enitrely, careful to give her a clear view of his claws. She was so fine-boned in his hand. If they'd been anwhere else, he would have yanked her by the arm and thrown her against a wall, cutting through her shorts till he could thrust inside her while she squirmed and cried against him.

She laughed softly, dropping her voice to a more library-appropriate level. "We—well, I—call him that sometimes because he's always listening to the Rat Pack. You know how it is." She grinned. "So? Do you work with him?"

He flicked a glance down toward McQuay and grinned. "You could say we're talking business," he conceded, reluctantly releasing her hand. He let his nails scrape lingerly over her wrist and she sucked in a breath at the slight sting, but oddly said nothing. His lips twitched and he took a step forward, looming over her. Her smile faded a touch and she took a half-step back. A faint whiff of apprehension caught his nose, combined with the faint, underlying fragrance of something musky and sweet.

"I'm new in town," he added without thinking, tilting his head to eye her lik prey. He could see the shadow of her cleavage from this angle. He thought about rolling his hand over her breast, squeezing and massaging as she struggled.

"Oh," she said faintly, finishing her step back. The underlying fragrance grew stronger, along with the apprehension. Then, her brow furrowing in concern, she asked, "Do you have a place to stay?"

"Toby!" McQuay squeaked out in alarm, his voice cracking.

Creed's smile widened viciously. "Actually, I'm between locations right now," he lied easily, flicking his tongue over his fangs.

"I have an extra room," she offered guilelessly. "It's not much—it'll be tight for you, I imagine—"

He grinned ferally at the image that phrase brought up. His cock twitched in his jeans.

"—but you're welcome to it."

"Um, princess? Mr Creed has plenty of more comfortable accommodations at his disposal," McQuay broke in sharply. "And your apartment is small enough as it is."

October scoffed. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Dean-o," she said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

_Kitty has claws,_ Creed thought with delight. It would be fun to use his own on her. Cut her to ribbons. Threaten her with a claw to her—

"He's not my—"

"I'd be happy to take you up on your offer," Victor cut in smoothly. "I have some business to wrap up with Dean-o here—" he clapped a hand loudly against the frail man's back and October jolted with wide-eyed empathy for her friend "—but I'd be happy to meet you at your apartment. Where do you live?"

Her smile was scintillating. "12501 Lakeshore Avenue, at the Generous Suites apartment building. I'm in number fourty-three. You can walk there from here—it's just four block seast, by the Lakeshore Bakery. I'll be waiting."

He almost licked his lips in anticipation. "I appreciate it, Miss—ah—"

She smiled. "October Morgan, but everyone calls me Toby," she offered. She turned on her heel, collecting up a black, ruffled purse and tossing a smile over her shoulder. "It'll be nice to have some company," she added mildly, then blew a kiss at McQuay. "Thanks for coming, Dean. Are we still on for dinner Thursday?"

"Absolutely," he replied weakly from his chair. He looked utterly defeated, and the taste of triumph was already thick in Victor's mouth. McQuay rose slowly, enveloping her in a careful hug while Creed watched suspiciously, waiting for the thin man to say something stupid. He didn't, though, and in a matter of moments they were watching her walk away.

Dean McQuay leaned heavily on his cane. "What do you want?" he asked drily. He sounded empty, hollowed-out.

"You to stop writing your shitty little subversions," Creed replied evenly, still watching her ass as she stepped out the library doors. She was a tight little thing— "Cut off your contracts. Stop freelancing for the rags in Washington and New York, all the papers. You need to disappear off the face of the planet, and I never wanna hear your anarchist shit again."

"You're a mutant," McQuay protested. "Why do you want to stop me?"

Creed grinned. "You don't sign my paychecks, bud."

McQuay clenched his jaw. "So what'll you do if I don't stop? Kill me?"

The bigger man chuckled. "Stupid question," he reproved. "But I'll answer it anyway, 'cause I'm nice like that. I'm gonna be living with your gal Friday over there till I know you're being good. You got me? You fuck up, and she pays." He grinned. "And believe me, I'll enjoy making that sweet pussy pay. There are a hundred ways I can hurt her, and a few of them involve that tight little ass of hers—" He paused, shrugged. "And if you still don't get it, and I hafta kill her, I'll make sure you watch me do it. And then I'll take you out in the most painful way I can imagine. And, believe me, I'm _very_ imaginative."

After a moment, the man turned to Creed and pulled off his sun glasses. There wasn't much that startled Creed these days, but he was intrigued by the man's protruding eyes: there was no white or iris or pupil, just wide orbs of mercuric silver. They flashed like twin mirrors in the sunlight.

"You a feral, Mr. Creed? Nice regenerative factor?"

The larger man was silent, watching him.

"I thought so," Dean said after a moment, his voice sounding resigned. "Did you know Toby and I used to go to school together?"

Creed shook his head mutely, his gaze flicking back toward the door where the girl had gone. His eyes held a predatory, speculative gleam. The corner of his mouth twitched in a savage smirk, one fang peeking out and denting his lip.

"Hey!" Dean rapped out, snapping his fingers in Creed's face. The bigger mutant whipped his head around to glower at the tiny man, his eyes narrow.

_No man snaps his fingers to Victor Creed._

"Listen to me," McQuay said tightly. "I'm gonna tell you how we met. We had math class together in sixth grade. We never talked. She was—she was always like she is now. Dresses clean, looks like a cute piece of—of _fluff_. But she didn't hang out with the cheerleaders and the jocks. She hung out with the—the goth kids and the punks and the nerds. She stuck with them, and she was loyal. Me, I didn't hang out with anyone. I didn't try. I'd had to leave my last school because people were pricks, and I wasn't gonna make the same mistake at this school. So I didn't talk to anyone. Especially _her._" He jerked a thumb back in the direction October had gone, and Creed wondered why the little man thought he cared. "I had no time for _princesses."_ He spat the word, and Creed suddenly understood that once upon a time, it had been an insult.

"Then one day, Toby was riding home with her mom. It was early fall of freshman year, still warm out. Three years of school together and we never talked. And these asshole jocks start picking on me. Knock my books outta my hands, knock me down. Tell me they've heard I break easily. They start kicking me. Not too hard—I think they were afraid still—but I could feel things cracking. And somewhere through the fog I hear someone yelling through rolled down windows—_Stop the car! Stop the car!_ And I look up, and here's Princess October Morgan, pulling back her fist and punching Derek Thompson in the gut as hard as she could."

The silver-eyed man paused and shook his head at the memory. "Thomspon's like, four times her size. Big guy. Not like you, of course, but huge compared to Toby. Her fist ran into him the way a bird runs into a speeding car's windshield. He didn't even flinch. He just stopped, and stared at her, like he was wondering where the hell she'd come from. And she pulls back her fist and gets ready to hit him again. And she said something to him—my head was too scrambled to even register it—and he just _left,_ like he didn't know what to do. And she put me in the back seat of her mom's car and let me put my head in her lap and took me home and patched me up as well as she could."

"Is this going somewhere, McQuay?" Creed asked, polishing his claws on his coat and making a display of letting them lengthen.

The crippled man scowled. "Yeah. I'll tell you where." He leaned closer . "One of the things my mutation allows me to do is mess up people's heads, Mr. Creed. Your brain is like loose jelly in your skull, and I can shake it up like cottage cheese. It's like an earthquake in your _brain._ You'll be drooling all over yourself. And once you finally start getting back to normal, thanks to your nifty little re-gen factor, I'll just mess you up again. I'll keep you like that _forever."_

Creed growled and leaned over, his hand gripping Dean's on the handle of the cane. The fine bones cracked audibly and the little man's face whitened, but to his credit, he didn't make a sound.

"I don't take kindly to threats, punk," the feral said coldly.

"It's not a threat," the younger man replied evenly, despite the obvious pain in his hand. "It's a consequence. You be nice to her, and I don't care. Be polite. Buy her flowers if you want to. But hurt her, and I make every moment of your eternal life a living hell."

Creed sneered. "I've taken down scarier things than you before, little man," he mocked, tightening his big fist over McQuay's once more. "Bigger men than you have tried and failed."

The man's lips were virtually white. "Be that as it may," he choked out, "I assure you there's a first time for everything."

The huge man scoffed, releasing Dean's hand with a snort. The frail man stumbled, grabbing his can with his other hand and freeing the one that had been virtually crushed in Creed's grasp.

"It'll be funny to watch you try your hand at me," Creed jeered. "Especially since you can't use that one anymore." He grinned and winked. "Don't worry, I'ma keep an eye on your pretty princess. I think I'll each her how to kneel." He laughed aloud at the furious expression on McQuay's face before slapping the man hard across the back in a false gesture of camaraderie_. "_Wait and see. You just do what I tell you, punk, and everything'll be just _fine."_ He grinned on his way out. "I'll be keeping in touch."


	2. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Creed reached her apartment scarcely five minutes after she did. He could tell from the fragrance still floating down the hall. She smelled like almonds, and warm skin that he could cut through like butter.

He paused at the door marked forty-three. Someone had scratched into the surface of the door: _Courtesy of FoH. _The carve-wounds were deep and deliberate, cutting through the veneer and into the core of the door. His lips curled back. For the most part, though he kept himself well-educated for his own benefit, he didn't favor any specific set of politics. However, he didn't see eye to eye with the Friends of Humanity.

Possibly because of that one time when he'd popped the former leader's left eyeball like an overripe grape.

Still, the marking was old—worn away. Possibly it had even been carved in before she moved here. He didn't like it though, and didn't like that she hadn't even tried to buff it away.

He tested the knob—she'd left it unlocked. Foolish frail. He opened it wide and stalked in, silent without even trying, and took in his surroundings.

The place was clean and pretty—quaint. He sneered. The kitchen table looked nice on first glance, but a second sweep of his gaze revealed that the leg had been broken and was being held up by two books: a copy of _The Iliad _ and Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._ Her keys were on the counter by the sink; he pocketed them deftly. Creed guessed the couch was old: it had been carefully covered by a chenille blanket. The curtains were clean and fluttering in the open windows, white linen that had frayed a bit at the hems, and the open closet reveal a few different coats and jackets and a stack of fleece blankets. The fire escape and the space by the window was full of big pink flowers that filled the air with their polleny musk. A little tag sticking out of the firt identified them as stargazer lilies.

It was tiny, but so open and airy that he didn't feel the claustrophobia that usually struck when he was confined. More than feeling trapped, he was disdainful of this _charming_ little place that was just so…fucking…_sweet. _ It set his teeth on edge.

On a shelf over the old box-TV, there was a cluster of photos, mostly of October and two much-younger girls who he guessed to be her sisters. One pictured two older people—a man and a woman. He guessed they were her parents. Another, a snapshot blown up large, showed four girls, including Toby. He guessed the fourth girl had been the one taking the other pictures.

He examined the photo, eyeing it critically. The three unfamiliar girls were much younger than their older sister, but they were clearly related. Almost all of them had varying shades of hair in gold, brown, or auburn, and different-colored eyes. One girl had flawless ivory skin, while the fourth—absent from previous photos—had a smattering of golden freckles on her rosy skin. Still, they all had the same smile, so wide and surprised by laughter that their eyes formed crescents in their faces.

He moved down the hallways. He could hear the sound of fabric rustling and humming in the far room, and leaned in the doorway when he reached it. His head brushed the top of the doorframe, and the breadth of his shoulders nearly filled the opening. He crossed his arms, lounging, and watched as she spread fresh white sheets on the queen-sized bed, humming something under her breath. He briefly let himself imagine pouncing on her, flinging her on the crisp white sheets, pinning her wrists as she begged for mercy and wriggled, pressing her soft breasts against him. He'd stain the sheets _red._

Oblivious, she straightened after making the bed, tossing the tangled mass of brassy curls over her shoulder. They trailed down to the small of her back and he thought about grabbing a handful of that hair and pulling it back while he shoved his cock in her mouth. He grinned nastily, licking his fangs.

_No biting, or I'll bite back. I promise mine will hurt more._

She turned to the doorway and gasped at the side of him there, nearly tumbling backward at the sight of him. Her pulse spiked and the room was flooded with the scent of her fear.

He savored it, grinning. "Scare ya?" he purred.

She laughed then, unexpectedly, and it threw him off—just a little.

"Definitely did," she agreed, moving toward him. "I'm glad you found the place all right."

He smirked. He could have followed her scent anywhere.

She turned her back to him, gesturing widely to the tiny room. "This is the master bedroom. Obviously it'll be a little tight for you," she turned back and eyed his shoulders a little nervously, "but it's the best I can offer for free."

She licked her lips and he tasted her appehension. She had to crane her neck back at a ridiculous angle to look up at him. "Do you have any luggage?" she asked, her voice small. He wondered if she felt small, standing so close to such a big man. He took a step forward, pretending to look around the apartment so he could move into her personal space, and weighed his options.

He settled for honesty. It tended to get a more pleasing reaction when he told people he was going to kill them. "No," he said calmly, after a moment. "I suppose I'll go buy some tomorrow."

She flushed a little and took a step back. He turned a little, facing away from her, but stepped backward into her space, herding her toward the wall. _Cat and mouse,_ he thought, his lips twitching in a sneer.

"I don't know—if there are a lot of shops around here that would sell your size," she said after a moment, sounding apologetic, bumping into the wall. "Not at decent prices anyway."

He turned suddenly, leaning a forearm against the wall so he could loom close over her.

"I can afford it," he purred. She stared up at him, eyes wide and dark with sudden terror. He held his other hand in front of him, examining the calluses and sinews as he let his claws lengthen, slowly and deliberately.

"Wh-who are you?" the girl asked. "I mean, I know you said your name was Creed, but—"

He grinned, baring his fangs at her and leaning in, breathing in her frangrance. "I'm an assassin," he purred.

Inexplicably, the tension seemed to drain out of her. "For me?" she askd, her voice suddenly clear.

He frowned at her bizarre lack of fear. "No," he growled, running one claw delicately over her throat. Her pulse jumped a little bit, but otherwise, there was no panic or alarm. He drew his claw over her again, pulling blood to the surface this time. It trickled over her collarbone in a thread of crimson, staining the low white collar of her tank top. The smell of it made him salivate.

"Not for you," he corrected. "For your good friend Dean-o. You're just…collateral. If he doesn't do what I say, I get to break all your bones one by one." He dropped one hand to her hip and ground his erection into her soft belly. "I think I'll start with your pelvis." His grin widened, feral, when her fear returned. "I have your keys," he stated mildly, his tone deceptive. "You left them on the counter. Do you have a cell phone?"

She shook her head mutely and he stared at her, eyes narrow, as he tried to figure out if she was lying.

"If I find you're fibbing to me, I'll cut your face to ribbons and you leave you alive," he informed her.

She gasped when he gripped her arm and whipped her around, yanking her through the door and toward the phone he'd seen in the kitchen. The cradle was anchored in the wall. He pulled the receiver from it and held it out to her. "Call your work," he ordered. "Tell them you're taking an extended leave of absence."

She looked confused, dazed. "I can't—"

He rolled his eyes. "I can keep coming up with new and interesting threats, but it gets boring after a while. Sooner or later I'll just skip the part where I bully you and go straight to part where I tear you apart."

She lifted one pale hand, quivering, and took the reciever, moving toward the phone to press the large numbers on the cradle. He didn'tmove, and she had to sidle between him and the counter, her body crushed against his as she dialed.

"Mmm," he purred. "That's _nice_."

She shot him a surprisingly powerful glare and he almost laughed with the force and surprise of it. "Hello? Hi, Jocelyn. It's Toby." He was impressed by the control in her voice. He hadn't expected that. "I've had a—ah, an emergency, of sorts. I need to take my vacation time." A pause. "Um, possibly all of it. Will that be okay?" Another pause, and then—to Creed's utter astonishment—she chuckled warmly. "Well, yes, I know I haven't taken any of my time. Look, I understand if that's not going to work for the firm. If you have to lay me off—yes, yes—oh, well, _thank_ you. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can, and I appreciate it. Okay—of course. Thanks, Jocelyn. I'll see you as soon as I get back." She hung the phone up gently, then turned to glower at him.

He leaned in closer, relishing in the feel of her body against his, and without even looking at it, he reached out with one clawed hand and yanked the phone directly out of the wall. October gasped as platser and dust flew everywhere.

"We can do this two ways," he said quietly, his face set in a mock-serious expression. "You can be a good girl and do what I say and pray every night that McQuay pulls through for you. Or you can fight me, try to sneak out, try to tell someone what's going on. In which case, I kill them, and then make you live in pain for a _very. Long. Time._" He paused and leaned in against her throat, let his teeth scrape lingeringly there. "I kind of hope you choose the latter," he whispered dangerously.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Two days later, and October had yet to sustain more than a scratch or mild bruise. He was a little frustrated—he had been hoping she'd give him an excuse to hurt her. Other than ensuring McQuay's cooperation, there was no reason to keep her intact, but that cooperation was the entire purpose of this mission.

He woke up, sliding into his black pants for the third day running, and moved to the kitchen to browse the fridge. The frail had nothing of substance in her goddam apartment—nothing but hot pockets and cereal, a far as he could tell. He'd devoured the extra hamburger she'd had tucked in a back corner of her freezer, but he was eager for some real meat: steak, porkchops, lamb. And possibly beer.

Well enough, as he needed more clothes anyway. He'd spotted a place a couple blocks back where he could order clothes tailored to fit his unique proportions.

Still, he wouldn't go till the Morgan bitch had woken up, and he could remind her of the rules.

He leaned over the back of the couch, staring at her. He'd discovered quickly that first night that she was adamant against sleeping on the twin bed in the spare room—_It's uncomfortable,_ she'd snapped at him. _I'd rather sleep on the floor._

He'd been tempted to make her do so, right at the foot of his bed like a dog. The thought aroused him. Part of him wondered why the hell she'd offered him the big bed in the first place, if the little one was so uncomfortable, but he pushed the thought aside. He would have taken it anyway, whether she offered it or not.

_I'll hear you if you wake up at all,_ he'd warned her. _If I think for a second you're trying to run, I'll catch you and break your ankles with my bare hands so you can't run again. And then, just for security's sake, you'll have to sleep with me._ He'd bared his teeth in a contemplative smirk, and she'd paled a little, that delicious scent of fear spiking. _I'll have to keep you under me, so I know if you try to move._

Otherwise, they had barely spoken. Of course, Creed had no problem with that. As far as he was concerned, frails like October Morgan—especially normal frails—were only good for one thing. Well, two, but they were usually linked in his mind.

Sex and bloodshed.

He leaned closer over the couch-back and reached down with one finger, scraping a line up her arm. A faint line followed his claw, turning red and raising after a moment. She shifted and the claw nicked deeper, drawing blood.

He rolled his eyes and gripped her shoulder tightly, shaking her roughly. "Wake up, frail," he demanded, jostling her. She twisted into her pillow, mumbling, and he grabbed a handful of hair and tugged sharply.

"Hmm?" she asked blearily, rolling on her back to face him. Her eyes opened slowly, delicately smudged on the upper lids with make-up, and she smiled, arching her back and uncurling her body as she stretched. He blinked, staring as a series of joints popped and snapped in her from her wrists to her ankles. She was wearing a thin white tank-top of ribbed fabric, with skinny little straps over her shoulders, and her heavy breasts pressed against the pale taxtured fabric. He could see the pink shadows of her nipples through the cloth.

She crumbled in on herself once her langourous stretch was complete and smiled again. "Morning, sunshine," she mumbled sleepily.

He stared at her incredulously. Was the woman an idiot?

"Do I look like a 'sunshine' to you?" he rumbled, furious.

She stretched again, her wrists crossing above her head, popping the fine bones there yet again. He thought of her sprawled on the bed in the back room, her wrists secured overhead while she arched and pleaded.

"Mmmm," she mumbled, sounding at the height of physical satisfaction each time her tiny bones snapped into place.

He was appalled. "I feel like I'm talking to a drunk," he hissed, and reached down to grab her jaw sharply. She yelped as he pulled her upright, his fingers digging into the skin there. "Listen to me, you stupid woman. I am going out. I'm gonna get some clothes, and some goddam decent food, and I'm gonna check on our little friend. I think you should use the rest of the morning to pray he's doing what he's supposed to, d'you hear me?"

She nodded mutely, eyes wide once more, her fear flooding through his senses. Clearly, she just hadn't been entirely awake before. For a moment he felt a flare of rage, thinking of who else she might have woken up with that smile and those wods.

'_Morning, sunshine._

"Good," he snarled. "Don't leave, don't try to contact anyone, and don't do anything stupid."

She nodded again.

"That's a good frail," he sneered, and swept out the door, grabbing his coat with her keys in the pocket.

It didn't take him long to get meaured and place his orders for pants. They promised him they'd be done in the next two days, and in the meantime he purchased a couple shirts. They would be too tight, but once he cut off the sleeves, he wouldn't feel restricted by them.

When he stopped by North Forest Avenue and slipped into McQuay's apartment, he found the man in the midst of stacks of papers.

"You doin' what I told you?" Victor asked, his voice making the fragile man jump.

McQuay scowled. "Are you being nice to Toby?" he shot back. "Because somehow I doubt you're holding up your end of the bargain. She's a sweet, sweet girl, and she's had a rough life—be nice to her."

Creed shrugged and grinned. "All things considered, she's holding up well," he mocked darkly, leaning on McQuay's desk. "So what are these, Crip?"

The man rolled his eyes and picked up a letter, waving it in the larger mutant's face. "Resignations," he snapped. "Apology letters."

The savage smile widened. "Atta boy. Now, tell me, friend, what security do I have that you won't turn back to your old ways once I' gone? Maybe I should take the frail with me."

"Don't even think it," Dean hissed back, sounding awfully fierce for a man so weak. Victor roared with laughter, throwing his head back at the smaller man's bravado.

"Brilliant," Creed said. "You know, I'll be following up with each of these individuals to make sure you actually send these letters," he added.

"That's confidential information," McQuay scoffed, and Creed grinned even wider.

"I have resources, little man. Don't think there's anything you can get away with." He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "And if you step one broken toe outta line, I'll _know,_ my tiny friend. and your frail will pay the price."

Blood rushed into McQuay's face. "She's not _mine,"_ he spat harshly, and the assassin chuckled darkly.

"Not for lack of trying though, eh?" he jeered, turning his back to McQuay and heading for the door. "I'll be checking in," he added, echoing his earlier statement. He ducked and grinned as a glass bottle whizzed past where his head had been and shattered againt the doorframe. Victor turned, grinning and _tsk_ing as he backed out the door. "Violence solves nothing, bud. Don't worry, I'll take it out of _dear_ October's hide."

Chuckling, he strode away, but not before McQuay heard him say happily, "I _love_ this job."


	3. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part III**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: Holy cow, guys! 20 Story Alerts, 11 Story Faves, and 17 reviews (last time I checked) in just two chapters…I am honored and flattered and hope I can keep it up!**

**Important side notes, or, "what to expect from this story": **

**You'll find that I enjoy torturing characters with unresolved sexual tension, so as a warning: it will be a while before we get to the actual consummation. Be patient: anticipation is nine-tenths of the game. :)**

**I also have minor issues with fanfiction that writes a vicious man like Creed as "suddenly having feelings for someone and not knowing why," so I will try to avoid that. Which means there will be a relatively slow growing of emotions, and slow realizations with fairly solid explanations backing them. For those of you who enjoy that thing, be watching for the hints of growing emotional bondage (haha). **

**There is, of course, as with any writing, a danger in this. I do intend for our sexy dark Victor to develop a level of intense sentiment regarding our girl Toby, and of course there will have to be some fluff…but if it gets **_**too**_** fluffy, and his character is no longer believable, I am trusting you to let me know—constructively, of course. :)**

**Also, there is slow-building plotline and intrigue going on here. If you're the type to want to try to figure out the mystery, pay attention to the fine details. :) If a weird minor detail is mentioned more than once over a couple of chapters, it's probably important!**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He ran the streets for a while, getting rid of his pent-up energy. Then he loaded his credit card with groceries, most involving meat or alcohol of some variety. When he got back to the apartment, he was surprised—and a little disappointed—to find that October hadn't even tried to leave.

A shame. It would have been a good opportunity for him to chase her down, rough her up.

Instead, she was sitting on the countertop, legs swinging as she munched on some frosted mini-wheats and watched _Law & Order_. The table was coveredin glossy photos and colored papers, the TV was practically blaring, the windows were swung wide open, but he was focused only on his captive.

She looked up at him, saw the bags of groceries, and looked a little guilty. "Sorry," she said. "About having crappy food to eat. I kinda suck at cooking. Last Thanksgiving I set off the fire alarms in the whole building and the fire department had to come, and I did it twice. Just from spilling milk on the stove. The poor volunteer firearm had to leave their families and come do—well, nothing—twice."

For a moment, he was baffled, and being baffled was something he was not familiar with. He was strong, and smart, and in control, and being confused put him horribly out of his element.

In short, she was pissing him off.

She hopped down and set her cereal aside, moving to take a bag of groceries from him and drawing out some of the meats. They were fairly nice cuts, and she whistled low. "I hope you know how to make these," she said to him, opening the fridge and crouching to stack the meat on the shelves.

Wordlessly, he handed her the next bag, and she laughed at the sight of more meat before tucking ti away too. She moved aside when she saw the size of the crate of beer he'd purchased: there was no way she was going to be able to lift that. He thrust it unceremoniously inside, then stood and towered over her. The fridge was still open, the cool air curled around them both lingeringly.

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "I take it Dean is being a good boy?" she said lightly.

He thought of the bottle sailing past his head and growled slightly. "Not entirely," he said shortly, looking her up and down. She flushed a little under his gaze and backed up again before hoisting herself back on the counter.

"I'm supposed to punish you," Creed added lazily, moving toward her and leaning in between her thighs. Her heart jumped suddenly and pounded like crazy, and he recognized a trace of the spiced fragrance he'd noticed at the library, lacing through her fear. He tilted his head and stared at her, curious.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked nonchalantly, looking at the TV again. A blush had curled into her throat, though, and he could feel the extra heat coming off her face.

"I thought, since you're such a smartass, that a whipping might be in order," he growled, irritated at her seeming dismissiveness. It was fake, he knew, but he was used to people not having the fortitude to act so cavalier around him. He let his nails lengthen, digging into the formica countertop. She looked down at his claws and frowned.

"You're determined to fuck with my security deposit, aren't you?" she asked mildly. He blinked at the obscenity falling so easily from her pretty mouth.

"Do you _know_ what a whipping from me would do to you?" he demanded, his eyes dark and implacable with quiet rage. He lifted one hand and rested it against her thigh. It was bigger than a dinner-plate, and the claws were sharp and, now, as long as her fingers. He squeezed a little, kneading her flesh. She winced when his claws pricked her skin through her clothes. Blood wafted into the air. "It'll take the flesh right off your ass," he ground out.

She gulped and the musky scent faded a little bit. She turned her gaze up at him slowly, eyes wide. Her eyes took in the tight wifebeater, stretched over his abdomen and pectorals, the thick arms, the glinting dogtags on his chest. His fierce eyes, eager for bloodshed. The way he was grinning. With one hand, she reached out and touched the short, dark 'chops that furred his jawline.

He lurched back from her touch as though burned, and she immediately looked apologetic. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just—I wasn't thinking."

"Touch me again like that, frail," he hissed, "and I swear I'll bite those goddam fingers right off."

The color leeched from her face and he swung away, stalking back to the far room, infuriated at her, at Dean, at himself. The bitch was going to think he was full of empty thrats if he kept this up. He was going to have to _do_ something. He just didn't know what.

He paced the room, enraged, fuming. He was ready to crush her into pieces, and as much as he wanted to work her over good—leave that fine-boned face permanently disfigured—he held back. He would beat the snot out of her after he'd calmed down enough to be a little more in control. That was the problem with collateral that _breathed._ Targets always got so fucking _sentimental_ about it. If he killed her now, McQuay would be twice as hard to control as he would have been in the first place, if the stupid frail had never entered the goddamn picture.

_Fuck._

He paced, trying to figure out exactly how he was going to go about this. He knew how to slaughter people easily, or maim. Anything short of that was a wild card: he didn't know how to make sure he _didn't_ kill her. And damn if he didn't want to kill her—he was fucking _furious._ Something about her light touch had fucked with his damn head and he was going to make her pay for it, the little bitch.

He didn't even realized how much tme had passed till there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. He realized, suddenly, that it was dusk, and he yanked the door open with a growl, nearly pulling it off the hinges. He loomed over October, ready to bludgeon her with one solid fist to the side of her skull. Knock her out for a few hours and give her one fucker of a headache.

So long as he didn't split her skull.

She was looking down though, a couple beers in her hands, and said in a whisper, "Can I come in?"

He stilled, then moved away from the door, leaving her just enough space to squeeze by. Eyes on her, he loped back over to the bed, moving in an arc around hr like a circling predator. The sight of him there gave her pause. He practically filled the room, even sitting down, and she realized that with his immense size his feet were probably dangling off the edge of the bed when he slept.

She bit her lip. Poor guy.

She then realized that this was probably the last man on the planet she should be thinking of as _poor_, and if he had known her sympathetic sentiments, she had a feeling she wouldn't be breathing for long.

"I thought—it's been a while and you must be getting hungry. I didn't want to touch the meat—I don't know how you like it, and didn't want to risk burning the place down. But I thought I could bring you something to drink," she added, and knelt on the floor in front of him, pulling a bottle-opener from her pocket and preparing to open the beverage, bracing it between her knees.

He reached out quickly and snagged it from her, using one claw to expertly open the alcohol. She watched, her mouth an "o" of surprise. He grinned at her. "Close that mouth, or we'll have to find something to put in it," he sneered. Damned if he didn't like the sight of her on her knees, where she belonged.

She flushed and snapped her mouth shut, and then laughed suddenly. Her eyes strained in the gathering dusk, catching his look of surprise at her mirth. "You're a clever man," she said lightly, by way of explanation. A half-smile curled her lip.

He downed the beer, then scowled at her. "I need to beat the hell out of you," he said after a moment. "You obviously think I'm a joke." He lengthened his claws: _Let her try to take _that _so lightly._

Her jaw dropped once more. "What? No! You're scary as hell!" she insisted, and indeed, he smelled the sudden rush of anxiety come over her. "God, if you're going to hurt me, at least do it for a real reason and not because you think I'm oblivious to how utterly terrifying you are!"

A slight smirk curled his lip. She was clever herself, he'd give her that. Blending a compliment with a plea.

Of course, he'd heard others try to pull that shit before.

"I don't need a _reason,"_ he said nastily. He snagged the other beer from her, drinking that too, before rising and staring down at her. After a moment, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it from the waist of his pants, letting the thick leather trap drop heavily to the floor. The buckle jarred when it hit the wood. He hooked his thumb in the front of the waistband, letting his hand rest there for a moment, and heard her heat skip a beat in sudden understanding and terror. "I could fuck you up just because I _can."_

"Look," she said after a moment, her voice wavering a little. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to apologize for—for touching you earlier, and doing something you didn't like—"

"Do you understand," he interrupted, "how completely I _own_ you right now?"

He could see her tremble in the gloom.

"I can do anything I want to you, and the more you fight it, the more I'll enjoy it." Her fear peaked, and his grin widened till his fansg were denting his lower lip. "I hold your life in my hand, and I can snuff it out without a thought—though I tell ya what, I prefer to take my time." He ran his hand over the zipper of his pants. "Do you think I could choke you on my cock?" he asked speculatively after a moment.

She was almost waxen in the twilight.

His eyes sharpened and dropped to hers again. "Do you understand?" he repeated, looking down at her scornfully.

She nodded, and he lunged down faster than she could think, snagging a fist ful of her hair and dragging her to her feet by it. She choked out a gasp of pain. In the growing dark, he could see the purple smudges on her chin from where he'd grabbed her earlier.

"The only reason I don't redecorate every room of this apartment with your severed limbs is because you're my collateral against McQuay," he said fiercely, his mouth inches from hers. "The only reason I don't simply kill him and do whatever I want with you is because the Big Man wants him discredited. But I run by my own rules, frail, and if you touch me again without permission, I will tear you apart."

She opened her mouth to say something—probably some smartass comment—then thought better of it. Her pretty lips snapped shot and she just nodded mutely.

"What?" he snapped.

She tilted her head, perplexed and reluctant. "If I answer that, you're going to hurt me."

His eyes narrowed. "One free pass, frail."

She chewed at her lip. He wanted to chew it as well, leave blood dripping down her chin.

"I just don't think that's very fair," she said lightly. "I mean, here you are, putting your hands all over me without permission—"

_The fuck? Who says shit like that? To _me?

"And that's how it'll stay," he ground out. "Because I have the power. I'm bigger than you, and stronger than you, and I'm the most dangerous thing out here."

She licked her lips again, and was silent, and he released her roughly. She stumbled and stayed put while he moved to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about girls who didn't know what was good for them. Within minutes, she smelled meat cooking, and it made her mouth water.

She slid down the hallway and toward the kitchen, saw that—of course—he was only cooking for one, and plucked a hot pocket from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter top and watched her as she moved about the kitchen—pouring herself some milk, sipping it quickly, setting it down when the microwave beeped. He tended to his steak, watching her. She nibbled on the edge of the flaky crust at the counter, and when he reached down delicately with his claws to sieze the steak straight from the pan without tongs, she winced.

He smirked. "I have a high pain tolerance," he mocked, slapping the steak onto a plate.

She looked around suddenly, surprised—"Did you even really cook that thing at all?" she asked smartly, almost laughing, before moving to the table and clearing the photos and papers away.

"I like it juicy," he purred suggestively, sidling close to her as she moved her crap to make room for him at the table. Even sitting down, he was still as tall as she was standing, and she shied away from suddenly.

"Mm," was all she said in acknowledgement before lifting herself back onto the ledge of the counter.

"Why don't you come sit over here?" he suggested mockingly, gesturing to the other chair across the table as she nibbled on her hot pocket.

She shrugged and swung her legs. "I feel tall up here," she grinned, casting him a downward glance out of the corner of her eye.

He grinned back and, without blinking or shifting his gaze, shoved the stacks of papers to the floor. "Sit," he said, still smiling, but it was clearly a warning.

She sighed and hopped down, sitting across from him.

He took a mouthful of his bloody steak and chewed thoughtfully. "What is all this shit, anyway?" he asked, gesturing to the fallen files and photos.

She hesitated, the corner of her mouth curling up in a self-deprecating smile as she lifted a sheaf of papers from the floor. "This is what I do," she said mildly, and lay a handful of the papers out for him one at a time. They were posters and flyers and newspaper articles, each depicting the fce of a different missing child. "Some of these are runaways. Some—no-one knows. My work—well, I'm not a lawyer—I don't have the money for college—but I'm an advocate. I talk to parents and make sure they know their rights and rsources when a kid goes missing. I'll go with them to court hearings if I have to or if they want me to. I try to help them find them. But I also work with children's rights so sometimes when a school has a kid they think is being a bused, I'll get called in to talk with the student. I do training sessions with the teachers at the beginning of the year and we do a refresher course at some schools in the winter. I work with the kids sometimes and advocate for them at court hearings, and do work at some of the juvenile shelters in town."

He sneered. "Isn't that cute? You find people, and I make them disappear."

Her face whitened, and she bit her lip before shuffling the papers back together and dropping them on the floor with the rest. He chuckled at her expression, turning his attention back toard his steak. God, he really hoped one of these idiots would fuck up so he could take her, pound into her from behind, make her scream and cry and beg.

Maybe, at the end, he would take her with him anyway. He could pcture her, naked, trying to crawl away as he looped an arm around herhips and dragged her wriggling body back to him.

"Don't think," he added after a minute, leaning foreward on his forearms, "that because I'm a mutant, I'm going to be soft on you because you're willing to work with mutants. I've killed my own kind for pay before. I'd do it for free if the mood struck." He tightened his fists, flexing his arms subtly in order to be more intimidating. She shrank back, just a little, but it was enough that he noticed. Quietly, grinning, with his voice dangerous and low, he said, "The only thing more pathetic and weak than a normal human being is a normal with a bleeding heart."

Her eyes flicked away from his, but he kept eyeing her: a predator's stare. After a moment she cleared her throat and stood, holding her hand out for his empty plate. He sat back and watched as she took it to the sink, filling one side halfway with soapy water and adding the pan he'd seared his meat in. She flicked on the flourescent light overhead and he watched her sink her hands into the warm water with a barely-audble sigh, rolling her head on her shoulders.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He leaned over the back of the couch and stared at her the next morning, popping a piece of nearly-raw bacon in his mouth. The frail would sleep till noon if he let her. Her brassy curls were a tanglement around her face, and her pretty lips were parted. He watched her still eyelids, fragile and dark-smudged. He didn't know how she could sleep so easily, with a predator like him leaning over her. Couldn't she sense him at all?

She rolled deeper into her blankets, her shoulders hunched, and turned onto her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered; he heard her pulse steadily increase. She stretched, her arms appearing from under the blnkets as she crossed her wrists over head and popped the jointsbefore curling back into herself. She was soft, and barely-muscled, but he liked to watch her tense and flex and relax. He tried to imagine the feel of her body moving like that as she tried to get away.

"Mm," she murmured from inside her cocoon. The girl had a pile of about five fleece blankets tangled around her and was buried deep inside them. "Smells good." She rolled back toward him, opening her eyes and yawning, stratching again. Her body arched as she did, but unfortunately for him, she was still covered by a shit-ton of fleece and didn't get a chance to see her soft, pretty breasts again.

_Time enough for that later,_ he thought with a smirk, baring a fang at her.

"'Morning, sunshine," she murmured sleepily—_again!_—before flopping back over on one side and burrowing into the borrowed warmth of her blankets.

He smirk faded. "Get up," he growled.

She sighed audibly and rolled into a sitting position, her blankets still wrapped tightly around her. She wiped at her eyes and blinked up at him. "I'm up," she confirmed mildly. He paused, popping another strip of bacon into his mouth and watching her from the corner of his eye. The bruises on her chin were darker today, and he liked the way they looked on her skin: his mark.

At some point, he promised himself, he'd mark her all over like that.

"Did you dream last night?" she asked after a moment, seemingly out of nowhere. He swung his head to meet her gaze, staring her down.

"No," he said abruptly, leaving no room for discussion.

She didn't seem to get the hint, or was just too stubborn. "Oh," she said lightly. "I thought I heard—"

He turned, catching her by the throat and slamming her down against the arm of the couch, looming over the back of it to stare down at her. His dog tags tumbled onto her chest, clinking and glinting. She choked, eyes wide, her hands at his wrist—but not squeezing or clawing, just holding him there. It surprised him, but he didn't let it distract him. "What did you hear?" he asked, his voice a snarl.

She twisted a little, arching away from him, trying to afford herself a little leeway. Her breasts pressed against his arm.

"Oh, I _like_ that," he growled lasciviously, tightening his hand. "What did you hear?"

"You were talking to someone called 'Jimmy,'" she gasped. "You said—"

He extended his claws, letting them cut into the back of her neck, and she gasped, eyes widening and body thrashing as the delightful tang of her blood hit the air. "That's the sweet stuff, frail," he purred, savoring the scent of it and applying just a bit more pressure. "Tell me again, what did you hear?"

"I—nothing!" she rasped out.

He pulled back. "There we go. We're gonna get along just fine."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, brows tilted like he'd just killed her puppy.

"Have some breakfast," he added, picking up a piece of bacon—overcooked by his standards—and holding it against her mouth. Obediantly, she parted her lips, too scared to do otherwise, and he slid it over her tongue. Her lips brushed his fingers when she closed them, and it sent a jolt down his spine. His eyes flashed to hers, dark and utterly implacable, and she swallowed the bacon nervously.

"Sorry," she murmured, her eyes holding his like she was too frightened to look away. His gaze dropped to her mouth again and he ran the edge of his thumb and claw experimentally over her lower lip, watching as it yielded under his light touch. Her fear amplified, but that musky aroma was back. He tilted his head, baffled, his eyes on her wide, dark orbs, and the realization hit him suddenly, sharply:

she was _aroused._

His lips pulled back in a slow, savage grin, revealing his sharp canines, and her eyes grew impossibly wider and darker, the spicy aroma strengthening.

_Unbe-fuckin'-lievable._

Creed couldn't remember the last time he'd had an aroused woman at his disposal—usually, their enthuiasm was focused more in fleeing than in staying. He realized suddenly that he had first scented her desire in the library, and that she had been wanting him almost from that first moment.

It was strange—he had hurt her, and threatened her in a hundred ways. The marks on her chin and the blood at the nape of her neck had proven that. And he wasn't stupid—he knew he was a _scary_ motherfucker. He had made grown men wet their pants before, and here was this slip of a girl who _wanted_ him.

He leaned in over her and her hands flew to his chest, not pulling him in, but not pushing away either. He breathed her in, committing the scent of her arousal to his memory.

"You _are_ a pretty thing," he murmured, his eyes glinting knowingly. "I could fuck you in ways you've never _dreamed._"

Her breath caught in her throat and she suddenly slipped to the side, rolling off the couch. "I need to brush my teeth!" she squeaked, scurrying around the furniture and trying to dart past him. He rose from his position leaning over the couch and stood languidly in her way, his bulk taking up the entry to the hall. After a fraction of a second of hesitation, she sidled pas t him, all her curves brushing against his solid muscle as she slid against the wall and fled down the hallway.

He grinned thoughtfully and reached for another slice of bacon. This had been an interesting morning, already.

"You learn something new every day," he murmured, taking a swig of his breakfast beer.


	4. Chapter II: The Animal, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter II: The Animal, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: A few!**

**1. Wow to the reviews. I don't typically request them because I think you/I tend to get a lot of "gr8jobb keepp riting plz!" junk that I don't particularly take to heart (in these cases, putting me on Story Alert means more than the review itself, though of course I do appreciate the words of encouragement). What I am really thanking everyone for is the amazing HIGH-QUALITY reviews I've gotten. Some of these have been paragraphs long, many of which have said, "This is specifically what I liked/loved…" And many of you who have included constructive criticism have been very positive about it, not condescending, which I also appreciate more than I can say. So thank you! **_**The Victor **_**has now earned 25 Story Alerts, 14 Favorites, and 24 reviews, many of which were truly helpful and flattering. THANK YOU!**

**2. The next few chapters are questionably/potentially fluffy (implied but certainly not explicit, at least to my way of thinking?), but don't hold it against me. :) I'm trying to build the foundations of a **_**real**_** relationship while maintaining all the sexual tension, so the next few chapters have a lot of glimpses into the mundane moments (some of the times I think we best earn about each other), where the only real sexual tension comes from one character's thoughts toward the other rather than anything that specifically happens. People are complicated creatures, and there's still a lot to develop, so…darkness this way comes. Be patient with me, please!**

**3. Also, **_**The Little Prince **_**is quoted both directly as well as paraphrased here; author mentioned in the text. Consider it suitably disclaimed. **

**4. Finally, be on the lookout for clues and foreshadowing, as always. **

**And thanks for being patient with me. :)**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed uneventfully. He listened to the water running as she showered and imagined her soaping up that pretty body of hers. He tucked into a couple of steaks in the afternoon while she munched on cereal and stared out the window, then leafed through a stack of files that she must have brought home from work the week before.

It was so…fucking…_boring._

The apartment building had roof-access; he went up briefly while she was engrossed in her files, eager for a little fresh air and space to move. When he came back down, she was perched cross-legged on the couch, hunched over a book.

"Are you still going to be here on Sunday?" she asked without looking up.

It was too much for a wild animal to bear. He'd been locked up in this fucking house all day, and here she was, not even afraid…hell, it was the first time she'd spoken since her hasty departure that morning. Now she had a sweet little pair of glasses on her nose, making her look like the kind of secretary he'd have liked to fuck in the past.

He leaned against the wall across from her, watching her. "Oh yes," he said after a moment, his voice deceptively mild. "I plan on being here for a few weeks, at _least._ That is," he added, smirking, "unless the job wraps up more quickly than I expect."

She knew what he meant. _Unless I kill you first._

Her heart tremored for a moment, briefly frightened, before she took a deep breath, turning her eyes back toward her book. "The library expects me on Sunday," she said mildly, "and I don't have a phone to call and cancel."

He moved behind her and tilted his head at her, grinning. "Why, you manipulative little bitch," he rumbled, impressed. He clapped his clawed hands over her shoulders, making her flinch. His hot fingers rested on the bareskin above her neckline. He pressed, feeing the skin yield under the warm pads of his fingers and his claws. "I guess I'll just have to go with you." His grin widened, baring sharp incisors. "Of course, if you fuck anything up, there's thirty little kiddies who can pay for your mistake."

Her lips tightened but she said nothing. However, the scent curling off her skin was almost entirely arousal with a remarkable lack of fear—relatively speaking—so he guessed that she hadn't been planning on stabbing him in the back. The thought was gratifying—for all her smartass remarks, maybe he had her under control after all.

He liked the image that conjured up—her on her back beneath him, or maybe on her hands and knees. _Under control._ He'd grip her pretty hips, dig his claws in and puncture her skin, make the blood run while he fucked her brutally. Make her scream and beg he'd let her go for a moment, let her try to crawl away. Give her hope.

Then he'd laugh and drag her back by her thighs and drill into her again—

"Will you help me?" she asked. Her words jarred him and his claws tightened on her shoulders. He pierced her flesh without thinking, which offered up to him the delectable scent of her blood. Still, when she winced and turned those utterly guileless, wide dark eyes up to him, he slowly retracted his nails.

"Mr Creed?"

Instinctively, he opened his mouth to snarl a refusal, but then paused. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him for help. It was probably Jimmy, decades ago when they were fighting through the savage wilderness, two brothers banded together forever.

Perhaps he could offer to help her with—whatever. Then taunt her with the knowledge. Toy with her a bit. Hurt her.

"What do you need help with?" he demanded, leaning down to purr in her ear.

She licked her lips. Her throat was rosy and flushed and she smelled damp and musky. "Um, I'm…"

He nipped her earlobe sharply, cutting her off, and she gasped. He could read her confusion clearly: she didn't know whether to be afraid or turned on. Adrenaline coursed his veins and he barked a sharp laugh at her. "Spit it out, frail."

"I'm thinking of reading _The Little Prince_ by Saint Exupéry to the kids on Sunday," she spilled out in a rush, twisting t look up at him. "But it's so long. I have to find the right chapters. They wanted tigers, and a flower. I think I have the right bit, but I'm not sure if it's too girlish. Will you let me read to you?"

_Dammit. No. What a stupid request._ He'd been hoping for something he could taunt her with.

""Why would I wanna listen to you read a fucking kid's book?" He paused, then gave her the most lascivious leer he could manage—which was pretty damn lascivious, even by his standards. "Maybe I'll help you—if you'll help me with a little somethin' sometime."

She twisted her lips, looking vaguely offended, and began to turn away. He thought, suddenly, of the times when Jimmy was sick and they still had their respective homes, and how he would read to his little brother sometimes by the light of the fire. It had been Jimmy who taught him to read in the first place—back before they knew they werebrothers but still had a bond. The serving boy and the sick kid from the big house.

Of course, Jimmy had always been content with his lot in life. He longed for simplicity and peace with a woman who loved him. Victor, on the other hand, had always wanted _more:_ more knowledge, more strength, more money, more women. He'd never been satisfied with peace and simplicity. He prefered war. He had a higher threshhold of stimulation. If he had an addiction, it was to adrenaline and power.

So when Jimmy and taught him how to read—which he'd picked up shockingly quickly—he had devoured book after book, reveling—as a boy—in the characters' adventures and yearning to have his own.

Well, he had them now.

He rolled his eyes and moved back, scraping his claws lingerly over her shoulders as he left, and strode to the kitchen to pluck a beer from the fridge. He cracked it open with a claw. He leaned against the counter, lazily crossing his long legs at the ankle and waiting with deliberate indifference. "Well, frail? You gonna start?"

The mildly disgusted look on her face melted. She smiled broadly, just for him, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to find the trick in it. The fear. The plea.

"Chapter Eight," she said quietly.

"She chose her colors with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She did not wish to go out into the world all rumpled, like the field poppies. It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature! And her mysterious adornment lasted for days and days.

"Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself. And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said: _Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged . . ._

But the little prince could not restrain his admiration. _Oh! How beautiful you are!_

_Am I not?_ the flower responded, sweetly. _And I was born at the same moment as the sun . . ._"

October glanced up at him, smiling as though personally amused by this flower and expecting him to join in her humor. The Stargazer lilies behind her, framed by the window, seemed like a reflection of the book she was reading.

He thought the story was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. A fucking flower? Really? But her voice washed over himnonetheless, warm and liquid. Unconsciously, he relaxed a little, his big shoulders rolling downward.

"_I think it is time for breakfast,_ she added an instant later_. If you would have the kindness to think of my needs—_And the little prince, completely abashed, went to look for a sprinkling-can of fresh water. So, he tended the flower."

Creed stood silently, pensively, lifting the beer to his mouth and taking a long pull as he watched her. She was stillsitting cross-legged turned toward him now, her limbs neatly folded and bare, her tangle of bronze hair falling over her face. She pushed it back distractedly. The bracelet shimmered on her wrist.

"One day, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince: _Let the tigers come with their claws! _

A grim smile curled the corner of his mouth. _Speaking of women not afraid of tigers._ He thought of her mouthy sass, how scared she was in the face of his threats—and yet she never cowered.

"_There are no tigers on my planet,_ the little prince objected. _And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds._

"_I am not a weed,_ the flower replied, sweetly. _And I am not at all afraid of tigers."_

Creed thought with a kind of savage gloating that he'd give the Morgan frail plenty to be afraid of before he was done. If she survived it, she'd have nightmares for years. He liked to imagine her waking up at night in the cold sweat of fear, her limbs still feeling weighted down by the remembered heaviness of him, her body sore and aching with phantom bruises. He growled low in his throat, almost without meaning to.

She looked up at him, expectantly, and he realized abruptly she was done. Her voice was so smooth, so lulling, he hadn't realized the story was finished.

"It _is_ a little girlish," he said roughly after a moment, taking a swig of his beer. "I like the bit at the end about the tiger and the girl."

"Flower," she corrected lightly, a small smile playing at her mouth.

He glowered at her. "It's clearly a metaphor," he returned shortly.

Her eyes widened and she looked pleased. She raised her eyebrows. "For?"

"For little blond girls who aren't afraid of things they should be," he ground out, glaring. This conversation was fast becoming more of a hassle than he'd expected. "Other than the girlishness, it's fine." He was in a foul mood again. He'd been lulled by her stupid voice and put off his game, and now he couldn't properly taunt her. "I'm sure you can tell all the little brats about the rewards of bravery and all that shit."

She closed the book slowly and looked at him with serious, dark eyes. "She isn't rewarded."

He looked up from his beer, his brows furrowed a little in confusion. "What?" Weren't all these books supposed to laud strength of character and fortitude and courage, even when it bordered on stupidity?

She smiled. "The prince leaves the flower all alone. It's in the next chapter. He says—

She paused, screwing her face up thoughtfully, and slowly recited from memory:

"_I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity._

"So instead of staying with her, he leaves her all alone. He talks about her throughout the book, but we never know if he returns to her."

He chuckled darkly and toasted her with his bottle. "There's the reward of the righteous," he sneered. "Thank God I'm not one of 'em." He thought of his own bank account, his unlimited credit, how he could get away with _anything_. "So, do the tigers get 'er?" He imagined huge, heavy-boned cats ripping their claws through pink lilies. He imagined October's skin flaring open in gouges of red under his own hands. The thought made him hard and he thought he was going to go crazy if he didn't either get out of there, or fuck her, or kill her.

She laughed, moving from the couch and coming toward him, pouring herself a glass of water from the faucet. "We don't know," she confessed lightly. "Maybe they do. Maybe they tear her apart."

His grin was feral.

"But some people," she added with a sideways smile, "don't do things because of some percieved 'reward for the righteous'."

"And that's how you end up on the bottom of the food chain," he mocked, watching her move. Her throat rippled as she downed the water and set her glass on the counter. "With the tigers chewing your throat out."

"Mm," she disagreed, wiping the stray drops of water from her lips. "I still say the flower's fate is better than the tiger's."

He raised an eyebrow derisively. "Oh, really?"

She nodded, her eyes soft. "The flower had, however briefly, someone to love and take care of her. And, as weak as she seemed, she took care of the prince too. I don't think tigers get that very often." Her little hand curled toward his face again, and, under her breath and almost bemused, she asked, "Has anyone taken care of you, Mr Creed?"

He was still. In these moments, there was a silent strength about her that frustrated him, that infuriated him and turned him on all at once. What woman raised her hand to Victor Creed's mouth, as though _she _could possibly give _him _anything of worth?

Her fingers stopped a hair's breadth from his jaw, and she dropped it after a moment, an uncertain little smile curlng the corner of her mouth. She dropped her gaze almost shyly, which his predator's instincts immediately picked up on as submission and vulnerability. He wanted to lunge at her throat, sink his teeth in. Throw her down on the floor and rut her till she begged for mercy, yanking a handful of her tangled blond hair back so he could keep his teeth clamped on her jugular the entire time. For a moment, with her lashes against her cheeks, it was all he could think of: fucking her. Hurting her. Wanting her.

Then lapping at her wounds.

"I think I'd rather have a tiger destroy me than never experience that."

His hands flew to the sides of her head and she started, gasping, when he dragged her face up to his. "You're so close to getting you wish," he purred, feeling furious and frustrated and overheated. He flung her away so hard that she hit the cabinetry hard and bounced off, tumbling to the ground. Without looking back, he stalked out the door with murder on his mind.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He strolled for hours. Wreaked havoc. Ran. Dared anyone to cross him wrongly. He ducked in a bar when it started raining, and a waitress with hard-looking fake tits rubbed up against him and asked for his order. He demanded a fifth of whiskey—the whole thing—and picked a fight with some muscle-bound asshole who wanted to "take him out back and teach him a lesson." The man smelled like five days with no shower, booze, and stale forced sex. Victor gauged him to be an abusive motherfucker, most likely a rapist. He probably had a wife at home who only hoped he'd come back so she knew where he was and didn't have to worry he'd pop up from behind the fucking furniture somewhere. She'd probably be pleased to find him dead, and no-one would miss this jackass.

Not that Victor had any room to judge.

When the two of them were alone in the rain and shadows of the alley behind the bar, Victor darted in and socked the guy with a handful of kidney-hits that brought the dickwad to his knees. The strikes had probably ruptured a couple of the jerkoff's organs.

At that point, Creed proceeded to methodically smash the man's face in with fists like pistons or lead weights, moving them with deliberate precision, speed, and efficacy. He continued striking the fucker with alternating blows till the prick's skull looked more like a bloody, misshapen potato than a human head.

Covered in blood and booze, Creed thought about banging the waitress as well but figured one fatality was enough for tonight, especially since he was trying to stay low-profile. Plus, after his fingers had pressed so tightly into the soft skin of October's chest today, and since he'd smelled her arousal and fear, he thought that this bitch—with her rock-hard tits—probably wouldn't do it for him.

Not till he'd sunk his teeth into the Morgan frail, anyway.

When he got back to the apartment, soaked in rain and blood, she was sitting on the couch with her back to him. It was nearly dark in the apartment—just a little lamp and the TV on.

"What are you doing?" he snarled, still in a savage mood.

She looked up, and immediately her popcorn was forgotten. She jumped to her feet and moved toward him, her brows knitted and her mouth an "o."

"Mr Creed—my God, what happened?"

Before he could register the movement, she was fluttering around him like some goddamn pixie, touching his coat, poking at the lapels, trying to find the source of the blood. Acting all—_concerned._

"S'not mine," he growled, baring his teeth in an angry, hard grin when she paused and looked up at him.

"Mr Creed," she whispered after a long moment. "You're soaked. We need to get you out of—well, I mean, you should go change. Please. Please change and I'll put those in the dryer, okay? And come sit with me. Please."

_Please._

"Begging already, frail?" he rumbled. He felt hot and itchy under the layer of drying blood. He was still pissed, still wanted her _scared._ Well, if he was honest, he just plain wanted her. "I haven't even _started_ fucking with you yet."

He stalked down the hall and stripped out of his clothes, throwing on another pair of pants and turning to the door again. To his surprise, she was waiting there—her eyes wide at the biref glimpse of his nakedness—and he whipped the wet, heavy clothing at her as hard as he could. She actually yelped and stumbled back, catching herself against the opposite wall. The only reason she didn't fall was because of the narrowness of the hall.

He paced the kitchen while she opened the dryer, which had bee tucked tightly into a hall closet. She looked at the clothes and realized just how much blood and—was that…brain matter…? With a barely perceptible shudder she kicked the dryer shut and opened the tiny washing machine, tossing his wet clothes in and adding cleaner. He watched darkly as she moved. He drank another beer. He washed his hands. He got in her space, trying to intimidate her. When she turned and started again at his nearness, he lifted her with one arm and sat her on the washing machine, leaning into her space so that she had to tilt back.

He glared.

"Mr Creed?" She sat still on the washer, sensing the predator in him. He glowered at her as she moved, his eyes tracking her. "Come on—why don't youcome sit with me on the couch? I'm watching a movie."

He slammed down his hands on either side of her, denting the top of the washer. She yelped, oozing fear, but just bit her lip and met his eyes, not backing down. "It's called _10,000 BC._ Have some corn," she added, gesturing with her chin down the hall and toward the couch, where a bowl was sitting.

His gaze didn't flicker. Shouldn't she be crying? Or shivering? Or trying to get away? Pleading at some point? Would she ever plead? What the hell was wrong with her?

"Hey," she whispered suddenly. He could tell from her voice that her throat had gone dry. Nervously, she licked her lips. "I don't know what's wrong but I promise watching a good movie and eating some popcorn helps." She edged cautiously toward him, sliding to the lip of the washing machine and slipping off. He growled low in his throat when every curve pressed tightly against him. "Come on. You need to calm down. It'll be fun. Promise."

She ducked under his arm and moved slowly toward the couch, looking back at him as if to beckon, one hand extended toward him. When he didn't move, she sat down on the couch, still meeting his eyes, and took a couple fluffy kernels of popcorn in her hand. Popped them in her mouth and held her bowl out to him.

He eyed the buttery kernels disdainfully and she shrugged while he loomed over her.

"You can sit, you know. Have you seen this movie before?"

He snorted, growled, paced like a caged lion. "I don't usually watch movies."

She shot him a sideways pout. "You deprived child."

He turned his eyes to her sharply before realizing she was teasing. The playful look on her face dissapated immediately and she turned apologetic. "I didn't mean—"

He cut her off with a grunt and sat heavily on the couch beside her. She yelped as his weight crushed in the old, overly-soft cushions and she rolled on her hip toward him.

He didn't comment when her shoulder fell into his, or when she pressed her cool little hands frantically against his upper arm to try to prop herself upright and away from him. He stared at the TV instead, grinning widely at the smell and feel of her. "I don't watch movies because they don't _do_ anything for me."

She had resituated herself at the far end of the couch, a tendril of fear still wafting through the air. He guessed she was remembering his words from before:_ touch me again, frail, and I will bite your fingers off._ Her fear made him feel more in control and reminded him that he was in power. It went a long way to calming his rage, which was no longer spiking but still a long way from being assuaged.

"Not even action movies with lots of explosions?" she asked, sounding baffled. "Or movies with blood and violence?"

He did turn toward her then, baring his teeth. "Why watch it on a screen when you can enjoy the real thing?"

She whitened, then blushed, then laughed. "Oh, please. There are plenty of other things to get out of the movies."

Creed tilted his head, staring at the caveman on the screen as he wooed some sexy blue-eyed woman. He doubted the ladies were that pretty and clean in prehistoric times. They weren't even that clean a hundred years ago.

"What else is there to get?" he scoffed. "They're not even remotely realistic."

She laughed again and he shot an irritated glance at her. "You're telling me, when you were younger, you never took some pretty little thing to a horror movie?"

He leaned back, hands tucked behind his head, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

She was grinning. "Come on, it's a classic. The adolescent high-school guy takes his girlfriend to a scary movie full of gore, and she squeals and hides her face in his chest, and it's a perfect opportunity for some adolescent cuddlage."

"Do I seem like the cuddly type to you?" he asked. The mildness of his tone indicated that she was treading dangerous ground.

She rolled her own eyes and popped a piece of corn into her mouth. "Please," she said again, sarcastically. "You _so_ strike me as the type to cop a few good feels when you were a kid."

He found himself surprisingly amused. Somehow, over the course of a few sentences, his rage had dissipated. Not a lot, but enough. He didn't have to hold himself back ffrom tearing out her throat now.

"Exactly how old do you think I am?" he asked, allowng an amused smirk.

She shrugged. "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

He grinned ferally, enjoying her ignorance. "Have you ever heard of a regenerative factor, little girl?"

Her eyes widened. "Of course," she said after a moment. "You heal?"

"I'm older than your great-grandma." He bent his head and sank his fangs into the meat of his own palm, right at the heel of his hand. She stared, transfixed, as the wounds bled and closed before her eyes.

He expected it to scare her. It was proof he was invincible, that there was no way she could hurt him or kill him in order to get away. He expected to see some version of the familiar, sweet hopelessness in her eyes.

Instead, she rocked to her knees beside him, the movie forgotten.

"Oh," she breathed. Her hand raised and moved toward his palm, stilling just a fraction of an inch away. There was that faint tang of fear again. "Can I?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to him.

Face expressionless, he lifted his chin in consent, made curious by her inquisitiveness and te look of awe on her face. He was used to frightening people…and here she was, fucking everything up…again. Looking all—_inspired._ He wanted to know what she'd do.

He didn't expect her to move so carefully, though, or to cradle his massive paw in her palms and run her thumbs lightly over the callused skin. She pulled his hand to her lap, smoothing gentle fingers over the unblemished skin.

"Does it hurt?" she whispered. Her touch was light and cool and lingeringly, like snowflakes. A thin silver charm bracelet, dotted with jangling letters, tinkled lightly on her wrist as she moved her hands over him.

He stared at the top of her head as she bent over his hand, then shrugged nonchalantly and looked away. "Having a healing trait doesn't dull your nerves. If anything, it means you lack scar tissue that could protect you."

He felt soft heat on his hand and swung his face back around to stare at her. She lifted her head, a smudge of his blood glistening on her full lips, fear in her eyes and her scent. At the sight, his cock immediately swelled in his jeans and he grunted at the suddenness of his raging hard-on.

"I used to kiss my sisters when they were hurt," she whispered defensively, sounding uncertain and more than a little afraid. "It was just instinctive."

He stared at her, both irritated and incredibly turned on by her blood-smeared mouth and fearful gaze. It was almost painful, which was saying something—for him. He briefly contemplated lunging at her, tearing her sweatpants away and plunging in to her. She'd be tight and dry, and it would hurt her. She'd struggle, and he'd lick his own blood from her mouth.

"It doesn't dull your nerves," he clarified after a moment. His voice was expressionless, but his eyes were dark and intent, focused on her bloody mouth. "But I've gotten used to pain. It doesn't bother me anymore." He could see the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she examined his unmarred palm once more, her fingers sliding lightly over it. Someone should teach her. Such ridiculous—what? _compassion?—_was paid for in pain.

Her fine eyebrows furrowed, and she looked wounded. "I know what that's like."

He raised an eyebrow, sneering, eyes still fastened on her lips. "Oh, do you?"

She flushed. He thought she might be completely unaware of the fact that he was a second away from screwing her silly.

"Not with physical pain, obviously," she said softly, sounding embarassed. "But…other stuff. When the hurt doesn't ever go away or get better. You just…stop being surprised by it."

Her words triggered something, a gut reaction. He reached out without thinking, still fascinated by the red on her mouth, his thumb catching her lower lip and smearing the blood there. Her desire scented the room again, musky and sweet, and she looked both confused and uncomfortable.

_You wanna keep her alive, you better put a leash on the animal—for now, anyway._

He smirked, but it was strained, his clawed thumb hovering just over her reddened lip. He knicked her lightly with the tip of one talon and she started, her lips trembling.

He could feel the heat and musk and—_there it was—_fear coming off her in clouds.

"You gonna watch this movie or not, frail?"

She coughed to cover her embarrassment and turned away from him. She was blushing so hard he thought she might burst a vein. God, but he was going to enjoy toying with her, running her through a wringer of pain and fear and lust.

A few minutes later he was scoffing at the screen and she was laughing uncontrollably on the other end of the couch.

"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen," he spat, as though personally offended. "The sabertooth just…what? Walks away? The damn thing's starving and there' a huge cut of fresh meat right there—"

"It's a movie, Mr Creed," October teased. "You're supposed to suspend your disbelief for a couple hours."

"Fucking nonsense," he growled, crossing his arms and looking both furious and disgusted. "You don't tame a predator just by letting it out of its cage."

"Don't take it so seriously," she pleaded, laughing, tugging at his arm. "It's supposed to be a legend. Legends are always—"

"Fucked up?" he asked rudely, flicking a surreptitious glance at her hands on his arm. _My, but you're an eager frail, aren't you?_ He thought about asking her if she knew what happened to the last person who'd laughed at him. "Why do you watch this tripe anyway?"

She was tossing back her almond-scented hair, almost bouncing in her seat, grinning widely. "I first went to see this movie just because I liked big animals. My sisters and I—"

He glanced at the pictures over the TV—

"—used to watch the Discovery Channel whenever they showed the specials on prehistoric mammals. They're just so huge—I mean, beavers the size of VW bugs, you know? How cool is that? I used to take them to the Museum of Natural History when I could, too. I always wanted to see one of them in real life. They're just so powerful and beautiful." She dropped her voice confidingly. "I kind of wish I could ride one."

And didn't that bring to mind a ton of pretty pictures and nasty remarks? Creed grinned, flashing one fang as he eyed her sideways. "I can think of one big animal you can ride _anytime,_ frail," he purred.

Her eyes grew wide and she blushed hotly, moving back toward her end of the couch and staring firmly at the TV. She withdrew so quickly it was like watching a sea anemone in the presence of a predator. He opened his mouth to say something suitably cutting and potentially vulgar when the sabertooth cat re-entered the frame of the television.

"Oh, fer Chrissake," he muttered when the tiger responded obediently to the main character's demands.

At the other end of the couch, October chuckled and smiled, still studiously keeping her gaze away from his. He eyed her stealthily, wondering when she had become so playful and just how ong he wanted to take advantage of it before sending her spiralling into abject terror again.

He didn't have long to wait. She was asleep before the end of the movie, curled up against the arm of the couch. He turned the piece of crap off and looked at her—took in her toes, like pink pearls, and the lean lines of her legs. Her delicate ankles. The completely untameable mass of her hair. Her one visible wrist, which was slim and frail-boned and shining with the silver charm bracelet.

The cool palm and slightly curled fingers that had stroked over his hand tenderly, as though she were truly concerned.

He tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye as she breathed, taking in the slow lull of her heartbeat. Her lashes made dark crescent on her cheeks, and the bruises on her chin were still dark and purpled, but getting better. It was just as well—the day before they'd looked almost fake, like inkstains. He knew people didn't normally bruise like that, not when they fell down the stairs or hit their chin on the counter. They were clearly bruises made from a hand like a vice.

It was just so satisfying to keep her here at his disposal. She was—entertaining, if nothing else. Frustrating as hell, confusing, infuriating at times…but entertaining, too. Her only consistency was how often she surprised him: with her laughter, her smart-ass remarks, her spunk. The careless way she reached out to touch his face or arm, like it was second-nature to her, regardless of his mutation or his strength or his aggression.

He noticed suddenly the blue smudges under her eyes—hollow shadows. He tilted his head. Sometimes he forgot people like her needed sleep. Still, he wondered at her apparent exhaustion.

He snaked out one hand, wrapping a careful claw around her ankle and tugging gently. She unfolded like a flower, rolling onto her back and sliding toward him sleepily. "Hmm?" she murmured, blinking her eyes. He wondered briefly if she were sick, but thought he would have smelled it on her.

At the same time, he was amused. Had it been him in her position, the person waking him would already have been gutted on his claws. He let his hand linger over her fragile foot, the fine arch there, then slide back up to bracelet her ankle. He could close his hand around it with room to spare—almost had to make a full fist around it. Her delicacy was remarkable to him, and extremely attractive.

He could break her in _half,_ if he wanted.

"You're exhausted," he said bluntly. He thought he could have been on top of her and had her clothes cut away, pulling her pretty thighs wide before she was awake enough to fight him.

A sleepy smile twitched her lips upward. "Wait. You woke me up…to tell me I'm tired?"

He scowled. "Why are you so exhausted?" If she _was_ sick, or if there was something going on—well, he wanted to know everything, dammit.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat and she rubbed at her eyes, scooting lower on the couch, too tired or too stupid to take note of the heavy claws encircling her ankle. "Living with you isn't exactly the most relaxing experience I've ever had," she teased. She wiggled her ankle—_so she had noticed—_not so much to get away as to make a point. "Plus, I wake up a lot." She shrugged and didn't say it was because he made so much noise when he was dreaming.

He knew it though.

He leaned in toward her, one forearm on either side of her thighs. He looked down at her face, his eyes sinister with heat, and even though she was half-asleep a breath caught in her throat. He grinned, letting his eyes course over her throat and down to her pretty breasts. H let his eyes linger there as the spiced scent of her arousal slowly gathered in the air. Her nipples pricked the fabric of her shirt and he could hear her heartrate pick up as she blushed. His gaze moved lower, over her soft stomach and focusing on the place where her thighs joined.

His nostrils flared at the musky fragrance, dipping his head and inhaling. He'd place money on the bet that she was _soaked. _

Best to leave her wanting. More fun.

For now.

Eyes flicking back up to her with a mocking glint, herose abruptly, releasing her and moving back toward the bedroom. "The movie's over," he said as he left. "You should turn that shit off and get some sleep."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: One last author's note for today. If you are all about Victor Creed and his wicked good looks and dark sensuality, as well as great characterization and intriguing plot, you should definitely try out ..v's **_**Blood of Brothers**_**, also on . Holy Sexual Tension, Batman! Rated M, for you good kids out there. ;)**


	5. Chapter II: The Animal, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter II: The Animal, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: I've struggled with the next few chapters, and I don't know if they're really as unremarkable as I think, or if I am just thinking about them too much! I am trying to create a story about a man who (****eventually****) comes to respect the profound strength in this woman, while still being (what I consider) deliciously dominating, and strong enough to take care of her when she doesn't take care of herself. It's a precarious enough balance with original characters, much less trying to translate it into pre-established personalities, so please, let me know if there are things I need to change…but be gentle. ;)**

**Also, I hope no-one is getting too frustrated with the lack of sex yet. For those of you anxious for it, you can start counting down till the smex: **

**The Animal, Part III**

**The Captive, Part I**

**The Captive, Part II**

**The Captive, Part III**

**The Drowning Man, Part I [SMUT]**

**Finally, I can't tell you all enough how much I appreciate the reviews, especially those that take the time to really state what you like (or what I need to work on). I try to respond to all my reviews, so if you have an account, please sign in before you review! And if you don't—get one! ;) Thank you again for all your support and encouragement—I hope I can live up to it!**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"I'm supposed to see her tonight."

Creed picked an imaginary piece of bloody meat out of his teeth with a sharp claw. "That's nice, McQuay. Didn't you have a little date or something?"

"Or something," McQuay snapped. "How am I even supposed to know if she's okay if I can't see her? It's not like she has a _phone_ anymore or anything."

Creed smiled a little, looking nostalgic and vaguely proud of himself. "Oh. Yeah."

"Don't pretend to be an idiot," McQuay retorted. "As much as you might like to play a musclehead, you're clearly smarter than you look."

The bigger man flashed his fangs in a wide smile. "Clearly."

"We always go out to dinner on Thursday night," the silver-eyed man insisted, taking off his dark glasses. "We're regulars at this place on Folkshire and Georgetown. People will notice if we're not there."

Victor leaned back in the extra chair and propped his boots insolently on McQuay's desk. "Strangely, I'm still not convinced." His eyes hardened. "And your disrespect is earning her more bruises as we speak."

The tiny manbowed over the desk, cradling his head his hands and scrubbing them over his face. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "But I've done everything you've asked, and I don't even know if she's okay like you say. Can't I just see her? Even briefly? Talk to her?"

"Trust me," the big man said smugly, grinning again. He got up and moved to the shelf where McQuay kept his decanter of whiskey, taking out the topper and sniffing the alcohol.

"_Trust_ you?" McQuay repeated, utterly incredulous. Creed shot him a warning smirk, one eyebrow raised, and poured the whiskey into all four cut-crystal shotglasses on the tray.

"I think I just heard you ask me to give our mutual friend a pretty black eye." He plunked one shot down in front of his host and tossed back the other three without flinching.

The frail man nearly collapsed on his desk, alcohol ignored. "Please don't," he pleaded. "Please don't hurt her. Do you want to hear me beg?"

Creed pulled a face, looking thoughtful. God, he loved this part. "Begging would be nice."

When the little man rose shakily to his feet and began to try to lower himself to his knees, Victor rolled his eyes. "For fuck's sake, man, have _some_ pride. She's just a frail. Besides, I don't give black eyes. If I'm gonna beat her, it's gonna be a lot more permanent than that."

"Please don't hurt her," McQuay implored again. "She's a sweet girl, and I'm sorry. Just don't—I just want to see her. I've done everything you've asked and I won't mess up, I swear—"

Creed whipped around when he smelled salt water, his lip curling in disgust. "Are you _crying,_ kid? Jesus. I haven't even started being scary yet."

The idiot snuffled, wiping his nose, and Creed was revolted.

"Have pity," Dean said.

The feral snorted. "I don't do _pity."_ A pause, then a grin. This idea had its merits. He could dangle her like a sweet piece of bait on a strong in front of McQuay. She was still sporting bruises from where he' gripped her face the other day. Let McQuay see it—put the fear of God in the insolent little shit. "Actually, I've been meaning to take the bitch out anyway. See how she can behave in public." The thought brought a glint of pleasure to his eye. "I think I'll join you two."

Though his silver eyes were opaque, the rest of McQuay's pathetic, quivering visage lit up with hope. "I can see her?"

Victor briefly thought of crushing that hope. It gave him a little rush. Instead, he tried to imagine making their every moment together miserable and wretched, and he thought in the long run it would be far more rewarding.

So instead, he moved to the door, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. I'll tell her to bring your balls while I'm at it."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for your hot date tonight?" Creed sneered. October was sitting by the window, reading a hardcover novel.

She blinked. "What?"

"With our good friend Dean-o."

She jumped from the windowsill, the book falling to the floor, forgotten. "What?"

"Are you deaf?" he snarled. "Don't you have your little ritual Thursday-night dinner together? At the intersection of Folkshire and Georgetown? Some shitty little romantic dinner? Followed by frolicking through fields of daisies?"

She wrinkled her nose in something like confusion or disgust, then stared at him. "You're letting me go out?"

"Did I not make that clear?" he snapped, irritated beyond reason. He had no idea why he was so angry, but it didn't matter. He'd long ago stopped questioning his own rages.

"Come with us?"

He did a double-take, slowly absorbing the wide eyes, utterly guileless. He ran over the words in his mind. It was not an assumption, or a fear-laced question.

It was an invitation.

For a moment, he was thrown, but then he grinned nastily. "I was planning on it, frail. Did I think I was gonna let you two out of my sight? This isn't a conjugal visit." His sneer grew wider. "Unless, of course, you want me to watch."

She completely ignore his implications, and smiled so brightly that her eyes curved into crescents. She moved toward him swiftly, stopping just short of him. Which was good, on her part, because he had instinctively extended his claws and was prepared to slit her throat if she attacked him. Then she said, "I'm sorry—I forgot—no touching—" and moved past him with a mocking, sideways grin and slipped down the hall, practically skipping. He realized after a second that she had been going to embrace him.

Jarred, he paused, then trailed after her, his brows furrowed in disconcertion. Of course, with disconcertion came anger. "You _want_ me to come? Are you a fucking moron?"

She tossed a grin over her shoulder. "Why not? You'd just be worried we were trying to 'escape your clutches' anyway." She wiggled her fingers good-naturedly, then smiled with mock contemplation. "Or you'd be sneaking around the shadows, stalking us."

"Aren't you mouthy," he sneered drily, a statement more than a question. "Maybe we should find something to keep that hole in your face occupied—"

"I just figure you're here and there's nothing I can do about it," she said with a wide-eyed, playful grin. "Probably the best thing I can do is be charming and hope for the best." She shot him a sassy smile.

While he was growling, both furious and aroused—never a good combination; at least, not for anyone but him—she disappeared into the closet in her bedroom, coming out with a white one-piece dress. It was pretty, with a square neckline, and she rifled through a drawer for white underthings to go with it. Creed's mouth watered when he saw the handfuls of colored lace she was ruffling through, and he wondered why the hell he'd never thought to go through her drawers.

It pissed him off to no end to think McQuay might have seen her panties when he hadn't.

He moved in silently behind her, and when she slammed the drawer shut and whirled around, her hair hit his chest and she gasped at his nearness, leaning back against the dresser. It came up to just below her shoulderblades, and the angle of her body thrust her breasts up at him. He trailed a claw lazily down her throat, leaving a lean red welt in its wake. The nail slid lower, down over the slope of one breast. The soft flesh surrendered beneath his claw, giving in under the pressure, and a line of blood rose to the surface. When it hit the air, his mouth watered at the smell of it. Her breath hitched and it dug deeper than he intended, but he certainly wasn't sorry. Her fear and her excitement—and now her metallic blood—were heavy in the air. He let his claw drag her tank top down, revealing the edge of her bra: cream satin, edged in black lace. Soon the pale fabric would be tinged at the edge with blood from where he'd cut her.

Let McQuay see his mark.

"Go get ready," he snarled, releasing her but not moving back. She didn't move, frozen, her lips pale but her cheeks flushed. She licked her mouth and he leaned in, fully intending to bite her, when she slid against him and ran down the hall, toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her hard.

They both recognized it as a futile gesture. If he wanted to break in, he would, and easily. Instead, he leaned against it, listening to the rustle of clothes falling off her body, the careful sound of water, the hiss of breath as she cleaned the shallow wound on her breast. The zipper sliding down on the dress, the sound of the fabric on her legs, the zipper moving up.

"Don't cover your bruises," he commanded through the door.

The popping of the lock was his only warning to brace himself when she yanked the door open and presented her back to him.

"Finish me, please," she said demurely, sweeping aside the golden curls and revealing that she'd only zipped herself halfway. He saw the strap of her bra, ivory satin overlaid with delicate folds of sheer fabric.

_Finish me._

_Please._

Oh, gladly, frail.

When he'd zipped her up, she turned back to him, leaning on the doorframe opposite him. The dress had a square neckline, revealing the barest hint of cleavage, and the angry red slice glared up at him from the gold-and-white flesh. The blue shadows of her veins stood out in the paler skin.

"Is this some kind of macho pissing contest?" she asked. Her voice was syrupy. Then—she _batted her eyelashes._

She was _mocking_ him.

He bared his fangs, but there was no humor in the expression, not even the violent wit to which she'd become accustomed. "For there to be a contest, there'd have to be a challenge," he spat. "Let me just assure you that in a cock fight, I'd win."

She shook her head, looking bewildered. "What are you going to do next? Mark your territory?"

He leaned over her, claws extended, hands flexed. "Don't. Tempt. Me."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said mildly, turning from him to pull a hairbrush from the drawer. "There is nothing between Dean and me. At _all."_

He clearly did not believe her. "Is this or is this not a date?" he demanded, obviously already having reached his own conclusion.

She spun around, a look of comic shock written on her face, and laughed so hard she had to bend at the waist to keep her balance. "Good_ lord, _no!" She stayed tilted, using the angle to examine her hair as she brushed it.

"He called you sweet."

October looked up at him from around her heavy curtain of hair, appalled. "I hate that word."

"He obviously worships the ground you walk on."

The brush parted her hair into a dozen rivers, shining in strands of gold and platium and brass and copper. When she spoke her voice was dry and unimpressed. "Correction: he thinks I'm a fragile flower."

"You _are_ a fragile flower."

She wrinkled her nose up at him. "Please. You don't know the half of it."

"I know I could rip you apart."

She wrinkled her nose and made a dismissive gesture that garnered both his fury and his curiosity. Did she think it didn't matter?

"You're not the scariest thing out there, Mr Creed."

He blinked at that. He damn well should have been. Before he coul respond to that, though—probably with a violent hand around her throat—she continued.

"And sweet? Really? Do I seem _sweet _to you?"

He glared down at her. "What's wrong with sweet?"

She flushed, but this time it was from anger, or possibly embarassment. "Why don't I just dye my hair pink and wear little kitten-ears? I'm not sweet. I'll be a little egotistical and say I do genuinely care about people, but that makes me anything but sweet. It just makes me pushy and bossy and demanding, with high expectations and exacting standards. I realize I don't kill people for a living, Mr Creed, but a fragile flower couldn't wake up every morning and do what I do."

He had a feeling she wasn't just referring to her work.

October straightened and tossed her hair back. No longer a mass of tangled curls, it streamed over her back in glistening waves. He bet on about an hour till it was back where it had started.

"_Sweet._ What a joke," she snapped at the mirror. "I love Dean—_as a friend—_but if he ever opened his eyes and took me off his goddamn pedestal, he'd see that I'm just a loud-mouthed, pushy bitch."

Victor raised an eyebrow at the obvious frustration in her voice. Besides, by his definition, _pushy _involved bending someone's neck backward over a step and threatening to break it if they didn't do what he said.

"You certainly smell sweet enough," he leered. "I bet you taste like it, too."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Don't overdo it." She pulled out a make-up bag and unzipped it. "Why don't you go find a woman who doesn't mind putting up with your macho bullshit?"

He sneered. "Oh, you don't mind it much. Besides, there haven't been a whole lot of willing women in my experience." He felt her fear palpably then, a physical tension in the room, and his smirk hardened into something fiercer. "What? Did you think I was bluffing when I threatened to rape you? It wouldn't be the first time. I learned young: take what you want."

Shelicked her lips and looked up at him, the bag now clutched in her hand. Her expression was a mixture of hurt, bewilderment, and deep-seated anxiety. "But—why? Surely you've come across a dozen women a day who would be happy to—"

"To what?" he snickered. "Screw the scary mutant? Yeah, they're _lining_ up." His tone was deliberately cutting. "The last time I remember a frail _willingly_ touching me was when I was a kid, and that ended ugly." His tone grew even nastier. "Besides, it's so much more _satisfying_ to just…_take_ it."

She turned back to the mirror and stared into it blankly. "I don't even believe that," she said after a moment. "I bet there are hundreds of women who daydream about jumping your bones."

He snorted derisively and didn't deign to answer. Let the bitch think what she wanted. At his silence, she set down the bag once more and began rifling through it, still looking troubled. He leaned in the doorway and watched her. He'd never seen a woman put on make-up before. He was actually coming to learn that he hadn't been in any remotely "normal" situation with a woman. He had lived with men for years in his unit. He'd lived with his brother. He knew how boys and men woke up in the morning, how they stretched and belched and postured for power, how they talked. It had never occurred to him before to be curious about how a woman rose in the morning, or how they moved, or spoke. In his mind, women had always served one unified purpose of providing sex and bloodshed.

But after all, despite her vulnerability and the fact that she was easy prey…wasn't it good to know the enemy?

With that justification, he watched her as she pulled out a crayon-looking thing in black, and carefully lined her upper eyelids, just above the lashes.

"I'm just saying times have changed, at least a little," she said at last, smearing the crayon over her eyes. She took out some powders in cream and copper and painted her eyelids with them. When she blinked, he thought they looked like butterfly wings. Some strange tension he didn't know he'd been holding on to leaked out of him then. It uncoiled from his spine, and he crossed his arms and relaxed just a little against the door frame.

"There are plenty of women," she added, briskly powdering her face with a fine dusting of something else that made his nose twitch, "who would think you're beautiful, and witty, and dangerous enough that they would be all over the opportunity to get you into bed."

He raised an eyebrow and sneered, thinking of the first girl he'd tried to kiss—Mary. He and Jimmy had been trying it out in a Canadian settlement in those first few months on their own, trying to blend in. He'd been fourteen, and she'd had this long hair the color of cornsilk, and eyes that were amber and green. He'd knicked her with one of his fangs, on her lip, and she'd screamed bloody murder and clawed his face. When she watched the wounds heal—well, it had only gotten worse from there.

"That's not been my experience," he said icily, his voice like gravel.

She stared in the mirror, lipstick held loosely in one hand. The silver charm bracelet clinked and jangled as she gestured. He tried to make out the letters as they moved: something-something, _TERS, _something_. _

"Normal people…" she paused, leaning closer to the mirror and eyeing her lips critically. She pursed them, then relaxed. He watched. "We're slow," she said after a moment, flicking her eyes over to him as she gestured lightly with the tube of make-up, then dabbed it thoughtfully in the center of her lower lip. He watched her plush flesh yield under the crayon.

"Maybe it comes with how quickly we die," she added, pausing. She was staring at her mouth in the mirror, but almost looking past it, her eyes focused on something in the distance. "I mean—" she cast him a saucy grin "—unlike some people, we kind of have an expiration date."

He glowered. "Your expiration date is when I say it is," he growled, and she laughed.

"Okay," she conceded. "Whatever you say. The point is, though…we learn all these lessons, and by the time we have a handle on them, we're on our deathbeds." Her voice was quiet as she turned back to mirror. "Just praying that our children and our children's children can learn from our own nasty mistakes. But for whatever reason—lack of experience, lack of maturity…" She paused and grinned again. "…lack of intelligence—whatever it is, they usually don't."

She dabbed more pigment on her lips and he thought just how very soft she was, and how very smart. He tried to picture crushing those lips with his own, or biting them till they bled, or how they'd look wrapped around his cock. And those images made him hard, made him want her all over again, bloody and mangled and pleading beneath him. At the same time, he also couldn't get rid of the image of her, right now, as she was, standing there in the distorting flourescent light of her bathroom, putting on her lipstick.

He tried to focus instead on the thought of her tearful face as she knelt in front of him, her lips wet and trembling, her hair a bloody mess of crimson and brass.

"My point is, human progress takes a long time," she murmured into the mirror. "I mean, it's not perfect yet, and I'm not saying—" she laughed and waved the tube of lipstick dangerously before refocusing her attention on her lips "—that it would be easy to go out and find someone to have a deep and meaningful relationship—"

He snorted, and she grinned into the mirror at him, then pressed her lips together to gloss her mouth evenly and capped her tube of lipstick. She turned, leaning against the counter, and smiled openly at him. Her eyes were utterly without cunning, completely open, and she said frankly, "I just think you could go just about anywhere—a bar, a restaurant, or Kmart—and find a handful of women who would be more than happy to let you fuck their goddamn brains out."

She smiled wider and flounced from the room, leaving him startled and blinking in her wake. The cusswords that peppered her speech seemed so incongruous when they came out of her plump lips. It jarred him back to reality and made him think about all the other things he could make that dirty mouth do.

With that thought, he turned on his heel and stalked after her and into the kitchen. She had tipped her head back and was squeezing water from a sports bottle into her mouth, careful not to let it mar her painted lips. He snagged the bottle deftly from her hands, latched his own around her waist, and hoisted her onto the kitchen counter. She gaped up at him, then laughed.

"How unfair is it that you're still taller than me?" she asked, looking up at him despite her perch.

She was scrambling his fucking brains.

"What about you?" he growled, placing his hands on her knees.

She blinked up at him, obviously baffled, an uncertain smile twitching the right corner of her mouth. She was a little afraid—he could smell it—but not nearly enough.

Not _nearly_ enough.

He spread her thighs, the white hem of her dress riding high, and slid between them, watching as her breathing hitched.

"Are _you_ one of the women who would let me fuck their goddamn brains out?" he mocked, leaning closer so that he towered over her.

She faltered, her eyes wide as a doe's. She reminded him of every deer he'd ever taken down.

"I—I don't really—" She paused, gulped. "I don't exactly count."

He raised an eyebrow, then leaned in to smell her throat, the fragrance of her hair. He liked that the way her chest hitched when she gasped, and that she couldn't finish a sentence.

"And why's that?" he purred in the shell of her ear. She jolted back to fast that she cracked her head on the cupboard behind her and he let out a sharp bark of laughter. It was twice as surprising when she winced, rubbed her head, and grinned. Somehow, the pain helped collect her thoughts.

Then:

"I may be genetically boring, but I'm about as far away from normal as you can get." She paused, licking her lips nervously, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his mouth. "At least when it comes to sex. It's nothing personal," she whispered after a moment. "I—I don't let _anyone_ fuck my brains out, not even when I want to. I just—never had the time, or the patience, or the experience for that—junk." With that, she twisted, obviously trying to find a way to get down from the counter without pushing any closer to him.

_Never_ had the time? He didn't think she was a virgin—there was a certain _scent_ virgins had, something that just screamed they were overripe and ready to be taken—but if she'd been barely-touched, it just made her more desirable. Made her more fully his.

"I think," he growled in a low, slow voice, his hands sliding slowly up her thighs, under her skirt. She stilled as they crept toward her hips, and then he dragged them back down to her knees, lightly scraping her with his claws. Her grin had faded and she was watching him with wide, dark eyes. He could smell her arousal as well as her apprehension.

He held her gaze and smiled slowly, baring his fangs. "I think you would let _me_ fuck your brains out—if I tried really, _really _hard."

He ran his nails over her thighs again, lightly, and her lips parted with a soft puff of breath. "I…I don't think…" She caught her lower lip with her teeth and then let it go. He watched, his eyes zeroed in, and wanted to press his own fangs into the soft flesh. "I don't think you'd have to actually try that hard," she spilled out suddenly. "So, please, I'd appreciate it if you—didn't."

He didn't move, still holding her eyes with his own like a cat toying with his prey. What were the benefits of letting her go? What did he have to _gain_ from it?

_I don't think you'd have to actually try that hard._

He leaned in, lightly touching her chin to lift her face to the light and examining her bruises. They were still dark and unmistakable against her skin. He dropped his hand to her collarbone, spanning it lightly with one hand before clawing back a lock of hair to better display the brilliant welt that slid down her throat and into her neckline.

"Let's go," he murmured, staring at her hard. She slipped from the counter, her body sliding downward against his, and moved toward the door.


	6. Chapter II: The Animal, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter II: The Animal, Part III**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N:**

**There have been a few comments in regards to the impending rough sex and so many readers' excitement for it. Which is flattering, and I hope it will be enjoyable for everyone…but do keep in mind that there is a plot to all this as well, slow-going though it may be. Thanks for your patience and all your helpful reviews!**

**SMUT countdown…**

**The Captive, Part I**

**The Captive, Part II**

**The Captive, Part III**

**The Drowning Man, Part I [SMUT]**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"Maybe," said McQuay, delicately setting down his glass of wine, "when this is all over, you can move in at my place."

Victor watched through narrowed eyes as October nearly choked on her own wine. Setting it down, she leaned across the table and caught McQuay's gaze earnestly. "How many times do I have to tell you?" she asked, but the words were gentle. "I am not leaving my apartment."

McQuay's eyes skittered nervously over to Creed's, then back to Toby. "Sooner or later," the man said carefully, "you're going to have to move. I would think—since we've been friends for so long—that it would be beneficial to—"

She leaned back in her chair. "Dean, I'm _not_ moving."

"Look, princess—"

"Forget it, Dean. I'm not moving, and as dear as you are to me, I'm definitely not living in with you." She took his hands in hers, rubbing the tops of his thumbs gently. "I know how you feel about me," she said quietly. "And I'm honored. Really, I am. But I just want to keep things simple between us. And I need to stay where I am." She squeezed his hands lightly, sympathetically. "This is the last time I want to have this conversation, Dean."

"Jesus, this is boring," Creed growled, spearing a piece of bloody steak on his fork. McQuay shot him a dirty look while Toby glanced at him with wide eyes before laughing so hard that people from the other tables turned to look. He allowed a slight, dry twist of his lips as he met McQuay's stare evenly. "Do you guy seriously have this conversation every fucking week? I feel like I'm in a fucking soap opera."

"You, sh-shut up," McQuay hissed, his fury so palpable that his voice shook with it. "I'll blow your damn head up."

In fact, Victor was impressed that the little man had managed to bite his tongue for so long this evening. He had watched McQuay's face go gray when he saw the bruises on sweet October's chin, the angry welt running from her throat down into her cleavage. The conversation at dinner had been stilted and slanted, and every time Creed shot a carefully-calculated sneer in McQuay's direction, the boy's frustration grew more and more pronounced. The little shit's ears had been almost continuously red for the last fifteen minutes. In fact, Creed starting to get a mild headache, right between his eyebrows. He wondered if that was McQuay's doing. Still, he raised one brow mockingly in an expression that clearly said: _bring it, bitch._

"Don't you dare, Dean McQuay," Toby broke in, her voice low and threatening. Both men turned to look at her: Dean with a hurt, shocked expression, and Victor with a look of implacable stillness.

"You can't tell me you don't want me to…take care of this…this _animal,"_ McQuay said sharply, looking wounded and betrayed.

"I don't want you to _try_," October said quietly, emphatically. "Even if you succeeded—which is, well, let's face it, _doubtful—_to what point? Traumatizing all the other people here? Getting brain matter in my food?"

McQuay's expression turned furious. "Oh, _please._ I see how you laugh at the things he says. What, because he has big muscles, you'll choose him over me?"

She looked appalled. "I'm not choosing _anyth—_God, are you _twelve?"_

"Look at what he's _done_ to you!" McQuay snapped, his voice rising. Other diners were staring now. He flung an outstretched hand at her bruised face and scratched chest.

Creed grinned and relaxed back in his chair. _Let the show begin._

October stared at the man, then leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs casually, and picked up her glass of wine. She sipped it with an air of studied indiffference. Victor was willing to bet he was the only one who could feel the heat and anger pouring off her in waves.

"It doesn't even hurt," she said coolly, after a moment. "All in all, I'd say he's treated me fairly well."

Which was, Creed thought, a complete lie—unless you took into account how he treated other women. He thought suddenly of her curled on the couch, watching a stupid movie and laughing at him, touching his arm.

The little man's face was mutinous. "You _can't_ be _serious."_

October leaned forward then, some of the anger pooling in her dark eyes, and her voice was coated with ice when she said, "At least he's not making a scene over nothing." She softened suddenly, reaching for his hand again. "Dean, let's not fight. This is silly—"

He stood up suddenly, nearly pitching forward into the table before he braced himself and grabbed his cane with shaking hands. She gasped, jerking back, when he swung the cane down and jabbed it at her sharply.

It stopped just an inch away from her chest. Victor had risen fluidly, his clawed hand gripping the base of the cane, holding it still and steady.

_He could have broken her fucking sternum, the little shit. _

"You," McQuay said shakily, staring at Toby. "You are just like every other girl."

October's expression was flooded with regret and remorse.

"That's what I've been saying, Dean-o," she said gently.

McQuay yanked at his cane—probably not a wise move—but Creed released it slowly, allowing the man to regain his equilibrium before he limped angrily away.

October sipped her wine. "Wasn't that exciting?" she said drily. She sounded incredibly tired. Slowly, Victor sat, and she toasted him with her glass. "Here's to being surrounded by violent, angry men," she said lightly.

He didn't respond, leaning back to look at her. It didn't seem to bother her that people were whispering and glancing over at them. She stared broodingly at her plate, then at his. "You should eat," she added after a moment.

He was out of place here, with his tight sleeveless shirt and his dark jeans, but Toby noted that it hadn't stopped a single woman from looking at him with desire. She wondered what he would look like in a suit and tie—probably have every womandrooling into her plate.

He took another bite of steak. "Does that usually happen—every week?" he asked when he'd swallowed. His voice was biting, intending to hurt.

A wry grin twisted her features. "Not to that extent," she conceded. "Having you here was kind of a wild card, Mr Creed." She smiled, her hand lingering lightly at her collarbone. "I don't think he liked your 'mark'."

He ate in silence for a moment, watching her. She had a faraway look on her face and hadn't had more than a bite of her chicken marsala. "You'll be hungry later," he said, after a silence.

She ignored his statement "I suppose your idea of collateral is wasted now, Mr Creed," she replied instead, her dark eyes still distant.

He studied her. Her skin was pale under the golden tan—waxy, almost. Her eyes were bruised with sleeplessness, and her chin was bruised from his hands. The mark on her throat and chest stood out garishly in the crystalline light of the restaurant, but she held herself like a queen, her face solemn and expectant and utterly lovely in its fragility. She still didn't look at him.

It hit him with a jolt: she expected him to kill her now. Well, perhaps not at this moment, but she believed they would return to her apartment and that, in light of her apparent worthlessness as a hostage, he would murder her. Probably after hours of torture and rape.

_You should eat,_ she'd said.

"Naw," he answered with perfect nonchalance. "He still loves you. Still would do anything for you." He shrugged and sneered. "Still thinks you're some kind of gift to the universe. The idiot."

Her gaze hardened a little. "It would probably be better if he didn't," she responded, tossing back the rest of her wine and pulling a credit card from her purse. "Thank you," she added after a beat.

His eyebrows flared questioningly.

"He was going to knock the wind out of me with that thing," she said after a moment, her voice still collected, calm. "At best."

Silence. He saw again, in his mind, the cane striking toward her delicate collarbone and chest. Heard the snap of her fragile bones splitting under the strike.

He knew that sound well.

"I'm your keeper," he rumbled at last. "Till I let you go—no-one gets to knock you around but me."

One corner of her mouth curled, sardonic. "How oddly comforting."

They walked home in silence, and when she reached the apartment, she dropped her bag and coat at the door, not bothering to hang them up, and curled up on the couch.

He stared down at her, wondering if she was really going to sleep like that. He knew she got cold at night, and here she was, all bare leg and thin white dress. Her high heels were still on. She looked exhausted though. He wondered if he should throw a blanket at her, and he hesitated.

"You'll have to get up early tomorrow,"he said after a moment, almost reluctant.

She turned her head and gazed up at him blankly from one eye.

"We need to pack and move out of here."

She jolted upright, suddenly more awake than she'd been in the last hour. "Excuse me?"

He glowered, his reluctance vanished in the face of his irritation. "Since when do I need to explain myself?"

She met his stare evenly. "What did I do to make us have to leave?"

He sneered down at her. "Your little friend is righteously pissed. He's going to do one of two things: fuck up our agreement, which mean I get to _kill_ you, or try to play the hero himself and call the cops. Which would just be a big fuckin' mess, don't you think? 'Cause you'd end up dying, most likely, and I'd have to kill every cop who came in here, and then inevitably I would have to twist Dean-o's fragile little head right off his fucking shoulders. Is that what you want?"

She stood up and moved toward him, regardless of the fact that she had to crane her neck at a ridiculous angle to meet his eyes. "Did you not hear me tell Dean that I am not leaving this place?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Look, _kitten_, you'll leave this place if I have to drag you out by the hair."

Her own brows rose, daring him to continue, and he curled a lip.

"Besides," he added, "place I pick? We'll be living in a penthouse suite. You can have a _bed._ Real food. Make you feel like a princess."

He didn't know why he was trying to bribe her with promises of luxury. It had never occurred to him to do so with any frail before. He said something, and a woman listened—or she died. Probably painfully.

To be honest, she usually ended up dead whether she listened or not.

It backfired. It had been, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Her face shuttered in. "I am not leaving this apartment."

"The fuck you aren't," he growled, his eyes darkening. "Do you really wanna have this fight with me, frail?"

"If I have to," she snapped. "Do you think I'm going to be swayed by fairy-tale promises? _Fuck_ you."

His eyes widened in shock, followed by fury. He advanced. She stumbled back a step, eyes still defiant, when he pushed into her and crowded her against the wall. He slammed his hands on either side of her face so hard that the plaster cracked, and the pictures of her sisters on the shelf rattled and fell.

"I could, you know," he growled dangerously, furiously. "Fuck you, that is. So hard you'd be in a wheelchair."

She swallowed. Her fear spiced the air, along with anger, but there was no arousal this time. In a low, even voice, she said, "I am _not_ leaving this apartment."

"What the fuck is your attachment to it?" he bellowed in her face. She darted left, trying to duck under his arm, and he jammed a knee between her legs, pinning her with three points of contact now: arm, arm, leg. She gasped when he lodged his thigh against her crotch, forcing her legs apart. There was a sound of fabric ripping as her skirt slid upwards around her hips. She was straining to stand on her toes even in high-heels, stradling his thigh, which was nearly as thick around as her waist. He crushed her against the wall with his own chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs with his bulk. Her hands flew to his chest, trying in vain to push him away. He was immoveable, a brick wall.

"I. Am _not._ Leaving this apartment," she spat breathlessly, trying desperately to twist away.

He sneered at the feel of her sex grinding against his leg and her breasts rubbing all over his chest.

"Wanna bet?" he demanded. "I'll tell you what—you keep that wiggling up and you won't be leaving this wall for a while."

"I'm not moving away!"

"You're not gonna be able to move _at all _when I'm done with you," he hissed.

His right hand swept up to pin her wrists. The fine silver charm bracelet on her arm tangled in his claws and he ripped it away, snapping it against the delicate skin.

She _howled._

"You fucking bastard! Let me _go,_ goddamn you, you cock-sucking motherfucker—!"

He blinked, amazed that she would even _dare_ to say such things to him. He could count on one claw the number of people who had so disrespected him since he had reached his physical maturity, and those had been mutant men who could hold their own against him, at least for a few minutes. Some of the men in his unit back in the day had said snide, veiled things, but the only one who had been so blatant was his brother. Well, and Wade Wilson, but that idiot couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

He thought about decking her, busting open that sassy mouth of hers, kicking her in her soft belly, whipping her with his thick belt till her skin peeled back like he'd promised earlier in the week. But there was something just as satisfying in letting her struggle against him and showing her how helpless she was simply by virtue of his inexorable, unmoving physical strength.

He didn't have to even _try_ in order to win.

She was putting up a real fight now, the kind he knew how to deal with. Her body twisted and arched against him; she tried to knee him in the groin. Obscenities spilled from her mouth even as her lung struggled to expand against the pressure of his massive chest.

He could crush them like paper bags.

He flattened her further against the wall. She was still muttering breathless cusswords under her breath, writhing against the plaster, determined to twist out of his grasp and probably scratch his eyes out. Never mind that: her fists were clenched. She was probably gonna try to deck him, and hurt her pretty little hand in the process.

He grinned again when her crotch continued grinding against the muscled planes of his thigh. _Those old familiar places._ She was getting tired; he could tell. Her vision was probably going spotty. And all he'd had to do was pin her there, no effort on his part.

"That's my—fuckin'—I love that bracelet!" she snapped, her voice alternately rising and falling in volume as she gasped for air. "Just come in here—wreck all my…my things—try to make me move—god_damn_ you, you fucking—animal! You _can't_ make me fucking leave!"

"How much would you like to bet I can?" he hissed, fury and excitement warring in him. For fuck's sake, the frail could put up a fight. She was fragile as a bird, and her blows glanced off him like bean bags. But she didn't give up—hell no. And she was clever, her little fists and spiky heels catching him in places he wasn't prepared for. Had he been a normal man, with normal reflexes, he might have lost an eye and sported some nasty bruises.

"Keep fightin', frail," he rumbled, grinning. "I can do this for hours."

"You gonna hit me yet?" she snapped. "Break my jaw?"

"Keep going," Creed invited, his smile growing even wider, but she was already a step ahead of him. She jabbed her stiffened hand at his throat, locking a thumb and forefinger around one of the tendons in his neck. Any other aggressor would already have been on the floor in pain, but Creed swatted her hand away instead, like a fly, laughing and wondering if she'd actually learned to fight from someone or if she was just _that _inventive, quick-thinking on her feet.

Or up against a wall, as the case may be.

She twisted her arm at some impossible angle and caught him right in the throat with her elbow, then brought it down sharply on the back of his neck. Another creature might have blacked out, but Victor Creed just grinned and chuckled, snagging her wrists and pinning them. His rage and arousal peaked and he ground against her, driving his erection into her soft belly and sharply lifting the leg wedged between her thighs. Her eyes flew wide, and the scent of fear suddenly surged through her anger, spiking toward him

There it was.

And now that she understood the full gravity of her situation, he lifted one massive paw to backhand her across the face. He imagined she'd fly through the air like a rag doll.

Then he'd fuck the hell out of her.

Without warning, she wilted against him, breathless and exhausted and afraid.

"I hate you," she whispered. "A lot."

"All this over a fucking bracelet?" he spat, grinning nastily. Now that she was still, he was just pissed. But then she melted even further, limp, suddenly fragile. He wondered briefly if she was going to pass out. Slowly, he released her wrists from his claw, bracing his thick forearms on either side of her face. He was so used to making women unconscious one way or another that he wasn't sure what exactly it took anymore.

"I can't leave this place," she whispered against him, and he paused. "Please don't make me. I know it's silly, but I can't."

"Why the fuck not?" he demanded. Then: "Is this some kind of weird fucking phobia?"

She laughed, then, sagging limply against him. "Something like that," she murmured, and rested her forehead against his chest. Her hands hung from him, fingers weakly gripping the lapels of his coat. He froze. She was still suspended off the floor on his leg, anchored by his arms on either side of her, and was no longer twitching to get away or stretching to reach the gorund. Instead, she simply trusted him to hold her there, leaning against him.

He thought about flinging her down, fucking her wildly. Beating her within a goddamn inch of her disrespectful life. Slapping that mouth silly, and then shutting her up with his cock halfway down her throat. She was a rambling mess of long bare limbs, ripped white fabric and lace, half-unpinned brassy tangles. Her lips were swollen, her eyes heavy. He shifted under her, and the faint aroma of her arousal suddenly overpowered him, swallowing up the scent of her anger. The muscles in her thighs twitched against him and she sighed, a slow blush creeping into her throat, eyes still closed.

Oh. _Oh. _

She was turned_ on._

His mouth watered. He could get used to this. She was _his_ to do with as he pleased.

He thought again of McQuay's cane, stabbing at her delicate little sternum, and a growl rose in his throat.

If any fucker ever tried to take her from him before he'd had her, he'd—

"Don't make me go," she whispered, turning her head so her cheek was pressed against his muscled chest. She could feel the cool metal of hid dogtags under her cheek. "Don't make me go." A pause, then: "I can hear your heart."

He felt a surge of something hot and powerful in his chest. Oh, he was still goddamn pissed, but he wanted her too. He was gonna fuck the life right out of her when this stupid mission was done, and he would teach her a thing or two about respect while he was at it.

_Sly bitch._

He moved swiftly, feline in his grace. In less than a second, he'd flung her toward the couch by his grip on her wrists, then released them as she sailed backward through the air. His open palm caught her just below the collarbone, lifting her a few scant inches into the air and throwing her slight body toward the sofa. She was actually airborne for a moment before crashing onto the couch, sprawling.

One heel went flying; he snagged the other with a deft claw and tore it from her foot. In a moment of indulgence—why shouldn't he?—he let his clawed fingers linger over her ankle and the arch of her foot. With a quick flick of his wrist he'd whipped the decorative chenille blanket off the back of the couch and snapped it down on her tired body. The sudden weight and momentum of it caught her off-guard and she gasped. She batted it away from her face, watching him with wide eyes, looking confused.

"Not that you deserve the favor, you manipulative little cunt," he said mildly, "but if the police come tomorrow, or if your stupid friend decides to play the hero, _you_ are figuring it out. You are the one picking up the pieces—even if they're bloody. I'll make you crawl around on your hands and knees and pick them up with your _teeth. _D'you understand me, frail?"

She nodded mutely, her eyes large and dark in her pale face.

"And if you ever speak to me like that again…" he added, leaning closer to her. His voice was deadly and quiet and he savored the rekindling fragrance of her fear, the nervous desire that was quickly fading at the graphic image he'd conjured. "And I mean, if you _ever _speak to me like that again…I'll tear your tongue out by the root. I'll chew it out like a dog. You'll drown in your own blood. And don't think for a second I won't enjoy every minute of it."


	7. Chapter III: The Captive, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter III: The Captive, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: A reviewer of this story once commented on my use of the word "also," and how it "De-educates" a writing style. I must respectfully disagree and note that I use it again in this chapter—in dialogue again, too! I am sorry for anyone this frustrates but I find that I use this word regularly in my own conversation and it feels natural to me. *shrug* I do appreciate the input though. I'd have to ask, too, that if it bothers you so much as to be painful enough to make you want to stop reading, you might want to—um—just desist right now. :) If you can overlook it though, you're obviously welcome to enjoy! Just, you know, a vague disclaimer/friendly warning. **

**The goal over the last chapter and the following three is to make the shift fromVictor Creed wanting to screw and kill October to him wanting to keep her alive and claiming some sort of possession of her, and finally genuinely valuing her based on her own merits.**

**The next few chapters and striking that slow balance and **_**believable**_** shift in character that is going to be a challenge, especially in the final stages. I am also concerned that the end of this chapter is jumpy and not smoothly-flowing.**

**The point is: be patient, and if the shift is too abrupt, please let me know. I think I had it pretty well and then I thought about it too much and revised it too much and now I'm not sure if the transition is smooth, so I am relying on yur feedback for this chapter!**

**Thank you!**

**Also, the smut countdon:**

**The Captive, Part II**

**The Captive, Part III**

**The Drowning Man, Part I [SMUT]**

**(and more…)**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

When someone knocked on the door the next morning, October jumped, her eyes flying to Victor's. She'd been avoiding his eyes all day, the scent of arousal still hanging heavily around her. The thought made him grin.

He shrugged and raised an eyebrow, flashing the tip of one fang at her as he gestured to the door with his chin. The message was clear: _your game._ She could almost feel his blood singing with anticipation, spoiling for a fight.

October almost melted with relief when she saw it was just Margo, and not the police or Dean.

"Margo!" she said happily. "Come in—Victor, this is Margo Reuse, from work. Margo, this is my—friend, Vic. He's—visiting—for a while."

The woman was slight, and red-haired. Pretty enough, stylishly thin, but Victor liked his women a little softer, a little curvier.

October was a meal in and of herself. This Margo-bitch was just a snack.

"Pleased to meet you," Margo said mildly, holding out one hand to him. He shook it briskly, frowning a little at the lack of expected bloodshed. Margo immediately turned from the big man, crossing her arms and glaring. "'Tober, why the hell did you leave us high and dry in the middle of a case? Jocelyn said you were taking an almost-unlimited amount of time off."

October gestured to the table, which was piled high with her files again. Her wrist was bruised and aching from where he'd torn the bracelet off her the night before, and she was glad she was wearing a wrap on it now.

Creed wasn't sure how he felt about it. He liked his bruises to be deliberate, and it grated on him a little that he had accidentally marked her. Still, when he thought of how her anger had spiked in that moment, the way she'd fought against him—well, the subsequent lust kept him from thinking too deeply on it.

"Sit down, Margo. Look—something came up. I couldn't help it, but I'm happy to help you out from here."

Margo glowered. Victor popped open a beer and watched her from his place at the counter. "You haven't answered any of my _calls,_ Toby."

October flushed and bit her lip. "My phone….broke," she said after a moment, sounding embarrassed.

"Look," Margo said, dropping her voice to a whisper as Creed walked into the living room. He thought it was funny that she thought he couldn't hear her. "I don't blame you for wanting to take time off with tall, dark, and godlike over there—hell, I'd probably disconnect my phone if I had a giant like that in my bed too—"

"Margo!"

"—but we _need_ you."

"You don't need me, Margo," October said quietly. "Most of you have a helluva lot more training than I do. I haven't even gone to college."

"Maybe not," the redhead conceded, "but you know a lot more than most of us do. You're closer to it, and you have the advocacy training—and you're a _smartass. _Vicious in the courtroom. We need you."

October sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, looking harassed. "Okay, run me through what we've got so far and I'll give you what I can."

"It's the Bobby Roman case—you remember. Frederick Mendohls is currently fighting for the parent's, ah—_rights,_" Margo said. Creed's ears pricked at the name of the counselor currently spearheading the Friends of Humanity court cases. "Mendohls is being paid for by the FoH, though the family doesn't have any specific ties to them—they must have made a serious effort to contact them and ask for their aid.

"The family is trying to force the kid to take the Cure. Bobby doesn't want to. Our team is trying to push the issue that forcing medication on an individual is illegal and unethical. Mendohls is stating that the kid is a minor and it's the Roman parents who have the rights here—that Bobby's just a child and his parents are responsible for him and know what's best. We imagine his closing argument will be something along the lines of: if your kid has cancer but doesn't want chemo, do you just acquiesce to his wishes? It's kind of the theme he's been pushing with his questions the entire time."

Creed could see the two of them at the table if he looked out of the corner of his eye. He watched October steeple her fingers and placed them against her lips. Then:

"Child abuse."

Margo blinked and leaned back in the chair, staring. "Excuse me?"

October snapped her fingers and rose to her feet, pacing the kitchen. "My books are in the office, but you should look in _Federal Law and the Child's Rights._ There are a few cases cited that you can use. One in the early nineties—this kid's mom decided that she didn't want her child to be left-handed. So she tied the kid's hand behind her back every day for almost ten years—she was homeschooled, so almost no-one knew—till the kid told an admissions counselor in college that she was ambidextrous because of it. Keep in mind, the mom was still regularly tying back the kid's hand, right? Well, the admissions counselor—who happened to be a lefty herself—informed a social worker, because the girl was still a minor. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. They ended up taking the mom to court and trying her for the mental abuse of a child, even though she'd never left any marks or bruises. The mom claimed she was only doing it to _protect her child from an affliction, and the social pressures that went with it_—or something like that—but they ended up siding with the child's rights and taking the mom out of the picture. Turned out there was another, younger brother, also a lefty, who she was doing the same thing to, for seven years. The parents were previously divorced, and the dad ended up raising the kids on his own. They're both well-adjusted adults now with families of their own, though they both still concede that their mother's beliefs had traumatic effects on their initial development."

"Are you serious?" Margo asked, her eyes wide. "That's crazy! Who does that?"

October shrugged. "It seems crazy, but it's actually not a rare thing. My grandmother's stepfather used to do the same thing to her. The point is, there are tons of parents out there who think they're doing the best thing they can for their kids when there's nothing really wrong in the first place. Anyway, there are other cases in my books that you can probably use, too. You might wanna check out _Children, Sex, and Law_ on my shelf—the volume by James Benedict. I don't know if they'd work as well, but there are lots of cases in the third section that are similar: parents thinking they're helping their children by approving certain medical procedures regarding intersex children or kids with enlarged organs, and really, the procedures end up being problematic. Some are even devastating. Same book, fourth section: a boy whose father tried to _beat_ the homosexuality out of him."

She gnawed at her lip, pausing in her pacing. "Some of these might not sway the jury, or even turn some of them away, but the transcripts could provide you with some great stuff for closing arguments. The important thing, I think, is going to be covincing the jury that Bobby's mutation is not an affliction. It's _not_ cancer. It's not going to kill him. There's nothing _wrong_ with him. If he wants to take the Cure, it needs to be _his _choice—no-one else's. Fucking _knock Mendohl's feet right out from under him. _Don't leave him a leg to stand on. Then it will be so much easier to argue for Bobby's rights: to try to take his mutation from him—especially when he wants it—is the same as a gross misuse of power and akin to child abuse."

Margo stared at the blond woman with a small smile of admiration. "You sure you can't be there next Friday, 'Tober? It'll shake Mendohls up to see you again. Rattle him a bit."

October cast a glance at Creed, who quickly looked away.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I'll…find out, get back to you."

Margo grinned. "Bobby Roman really wants to meet you. He didn't believe me when I said his case was going to be won by October Morgan."

Toby he gnawed at her lip, twisting a lock of blond hair in her fingers. "You shouldn't have said that, Margo," she said at last. "If the case wins, it's as much your work as mine—in some ways, even more, especially now that I've bailed on you for the last week. And what if we don't win?"

Margo rose, slinging her huge turquoise handbag over one slim shoulder. "Oh, we'll win, 'Tober. You better believe it. And I know you—if we don't win this case, you'll dig in your heels and find ways to delay the administration of the Cure till he hits eighteen. It's only two years away."

October grinned a little, a half-smile that was uncertain and nervous-looking. "I hope you're right, Margo."

The redhead tossed her head back saucily. "I'm always right, kid. Look. You—ah—have _fun_ on your vacation. Nice to meet you, Vic," she added, directing the last bit toward the man on the couch. He lifted his empty beer bottle in silent reply as October leaned against the door and watched her friend till she left.

With a sigh, she quietly closed the heavy door and leaned over, rubbing her temples. "What do you think?" she asked. "You gonna let me go next week?"

He lifted a shoulder. "I haven't decided." Then: "You really take this shit seriously, huh?"

She moved through the apartment and sat delicately beside him on the couch, facing him, one leg bent beneath her. She fiddled with the wrap on her wrist, looking nervous. She still smelled faintly of arousal, underneath the apprehension.

He wondered if she'd been hot and bothered all since last night—the thought made him harden. Next time—if she wasn't busy trying to piss him off—he might make it more enjoyable. Finish her off—make her come. He remembered the way she had smelled after he'd pinned her to the wall, his thigh weged between her legs, hoisting her right off the ground. Spent of anger, she'd been a beacon of aromatic fear and desire.

Now, she smelled like skin and almonds. He eyed her—the bruises, the cut down her throat that he'd given her the night before. He wasn't a man who thought in terms of beauty. He thought in terms of wanting, taking, and having. Desiring and destroying. But tired as she was, her hair tangling in handfuls of brassy curls, all marked up as his—he thought she was gorgeous.

No. Whatever she had, it was better than gorgeousness.

Didn't stop him from wanting to bend her over the couch and fuck her brains out, though.

"I like kids," she said after a moment. "Not enough of them have someone looking out for them."

He thought about that. How stubborn she was in a fight, how eager she was tohelp these brats. How he'd nearly backhanded her across the room the night before, and yet, here she was, sitting beside him.

In fact, it was fascinating to him that she would come to sit near him, talk to him this way. She was remarkably strong and independent, and he'd never met an independent woman who would act this way to a man who'd raised his hand to her.

Granted, most of the women he'd raised his hand to didn't live that long. Still—

If she'd been around when he was a kid, she would have stuck by him, thick and thin. No turning him away. No running off, like Jimmy had. She was tough, and she was—wierdly loyal. If there had been an October Morgan in any one of the villages and settlements he and Jimmy stopped at—he paused, trying to remember how he'd acted and felt when he was a kid. He was a tough little bastard, looking out for his surprisingly fragile little brother: them against the world.

He thought of the village where he'd kissed Mary—the first and one of the only times he'd kissed a woman. Even there, they'd been hard-pressed to find someone to take them in. An older couple had let them live in the barn in exchange for a shit-ton of hard labor. When they'd realized how strong Victor was, they'd taken advantage, and used his love for his little brother to keep him in line. When he'd met Mary, with her coy glances and flirtatious gestures, he'd finished his work in half the time and snuck out to see her at the river. Three clandestine visits later, he'd kissed her, and it had gone downhill from there.

He'd gotten Jimmy safe by forcing him into an abandoned fox burrow, and then leading the villagers away. They caught him, and for a while were fascinated and frightened by his regenerative capabilities, trying to find the thing that couldn't grow back. He'd had shovels taken to his face; he'd been burned with torches, shot in the chest, left out on a stake for days at a time till he was savage with hunger. At one point, they tried throwing holy water in his face, as though it would melt his skin off. Instead, he'd lapped eagerly at the blessed liquid on his face, his cracked lips and parched mouth grateful for the fluid. At that time, his tongue had been swollen and black—

But he hadn't _died_.

When he finally passed out and they were sure he was no longer a danger, they threw him in a sack weighed down with rocks and tossed him in the river. When he woke andfought his way free, he was gaunt and pale and naked, but he'd smelled his way back to Jimmy first, knowing his little brother was probably sick and cold and hungry. Once he had the kid secured, he'd taken down a deer, and they'd feasted on raw meat that night.

Three villages later, he'd killed his first man, when the bastard had started to beat Jimmy. His little brother couldn't do the same kind of hard labor that Victor could, and—at the time—had no healing factor. His regenerative abilities hadn't shown up till two years later, when the kid hit thirteen. The shit-faced Canadian redneck had taken the business end of a hoe to Jimmy, and Creed had gone berserk, ripping the man to pieces. They'd run out into the night. Nowadays, it grated on his nerves that it had been _Jimmy_ who killed first—never mind that it was their own father—but Creed assuaged himself with the knowledge that he was still the better and more ruthless hunter.

But if there had been an October Morgan there—in the village with Mary, or the settlement with the bastard who hit his brother—it would have been entirely different. He had no doubt October would have taken them in, as improper as it might have been considering the era, and made a bed for them by the fire. If Creed remembered his fourteen-year-old self well—and he was certain he did—he knew he would have never glanced sideways at Mary, had Toby been around. At the time, he had been emotionally weak, and starved for the kind of beauty that was October: namely, her limitless kindness and generosity. Though he recognized it now as a weakness and a flaw, at the time he would have been entranced, and utterly devoted to her for the benevolence he'd never known in his fourteen years. He would have kept the three of them living in fresh meat for the rest of her life, and maybe when he reached maturity he would have tried to kiss her, even though she'd be older than him.

And even if she had been scared by his clumsiness and the ease with which his teeth made her bleed, even if she thought he was just a young stupid kid, she would have been kind. She wouldn't have screamed or clawed him or let the villagers tie him to a stake in the middle of the settlement. In fact, had they tried, she would have fought them every step of the way.

He wouldn't say that he would have ended up anywhere but here, asassinating random targets and raping women and breaking laws. But for a time, things might have been brighter. Maybe he could have done better by Jimmy. Maybe—

He knew he wanted her. Knew that, some day soon, he was going to make her plead to have him inside her, beg for it. He wanted her spending sleepless nights wishing for him between her thighs. Touching herself. She'd be so caught up in fear and desire she'd be begging for mercy from him, and she wouldn't even know whether she wanted death, or something harder.

It disconcerted him, threw him off, and he _hated _that. At the same time, he wanted to hold onto it and not let it go.

And he blamed her for it.

With that thought in mind, he lunged.

October gasped at his sudden attack but didn't move, sitting utterly still as he thrust his face against her throat. He inhaled, breathing in her scent: musky desire, fear, almond shampoo. Honey, maybe. Hot skin, blood under the surface.

He slammed his arm on the other side of her head, making her jump. He was almost covering her with his large body, surrounding her, and all she could see and breathe and smell was him.

The fur on his jaw scraped her throat as he licked her from collarbone to chin in one long stroke.

She whimpered. The twin aromas of her fear and arousal flooded the room. He grinned against her throat, pressing his teeth to her skin. She trembled at the contact. She might sit and talk with him, but she was still frightened from the night before.

The power was sweet, and he savored it.

"Scared?" he breathed against her throat, his voice husky and mocking all at once.

He felt her tilt her chin and imagined the defiance in her eyes. "Not even nearly."

He chuckled darkly, furiously, and nipped at her hard enough to draw blood. _Little liar. _ He hated how she messed with his head, how she as afraid of him and wanted him, and treated him with a hundred little kindnesses. He hated that he couldn't figure out her motives—and it made him want to tear her apart.

"You should be."

She tilted her head and lifted one shoulder against him, shying and cringing away, looking confused. He grinned wider at her, head lowered, eyes glinting, and snickered when she bumped into the huge arm he had caging her in on the other side. Poor little rabbit was so flustered she didn't even know where she was going.

"Before this little adventure is over, I'm gonna teach you some respect, frail."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

On Saturday, Creed visited McQuay in his home to sound him out. The man sulked and brooded the entire time, staring moodily about and answering questions with singular words as often as possible. It was annoying, and not as fun as he'd expected. Still, he'd walked away reassured of the little man's cooperation.

That night, October woke up to the sounds of him thrashing down the hall. When he roared deafeningly and things fell silent, she assumed he'd woken himself up from his nightmares. Having learned earlier that week that he didn't like to think she knew about them, she said nothing, just as she had remained silent the last three times she'd woken to the sounds of his wrath.

Sunday passed uneventfully. Victor watched October read to the children at the library and noted that McQuay was not in the audience this time. She asked, with a smile, if she could take him out to lunch, and he realized suddenly that she must be running out of hot pockets and cereal. He agreed and ordered a variety of meats for his own meal: bacon, sausage, ham, breakfast steak—thank you very much. She watched with wide eyes as he downed every bite with fangs he deliberately flashed at her, grinning mockingly when the scent of her arousal spiked.

He dragged her to the store while he got more meat and beer for the fridge. Tentatively, she asked how he never seemed to be drunk, and he explained his healing factor a little more in depth: how it didn't allow him to get high, get drunk, get addicted. Between his inability to turn off reality and his complete lack of scar tissue, the healing factor could be as much of a curse as a blessing, and he supposed lesser men than him would have been driven crazy by it.

She was curious about him, but not so much about his mutation. Not about what—if anything—could hurt him, or how strong he was, or how his claws were so easily lengthened and retracted. Not his fangs, or his animalistic tendencies, or his longing for bloody meat. She asked, instead, what he liked, what he didn't, what stories he was willing to share.

Mostly he chose stories deliberately designed to scare her—like the time when h and Jimmy had been found out and staked out in front of a firing squad but hadn't died. The time Creed had decided he didn't like the squadron leader and had reahed into the man's soft belly to pull out a handful of slithering intestines, and how the idiot had squealed and slobbered like a pig. One time a drunk man in a bar had thrown a punch at Jimmy for hitting on his girl, and though Jimmy had long since learned how to take care of himself, brotherly instinct had Creed catching the man's wrist and pressing a clawed thumb so sharply between the wristbones that the fist had popped right off the arm in a spray of blood and splintered bone. That had been a good one. The men in the bar were stunned and screaming like little girls.

There was the time in 'Nam, too, when some bitch had tried to infilitrate their team with explosives strapped under her clothes. He'd smelled her coming and had been aching for a woman anyway, so he caught her before she even got close to the camp. He'd taken in the sour smell of her nervousness and sweat, the distinct scent of gunpowder, and had ripped the wires and sticks of dynamite away from her skin, infuriated at her attempt to take his unit down. Then he fucked her till one of her hips shattered and she was bleeding all over the place. When he was done, he'd shoved one of the sticks of dynamite down her throat and blown her goddamn face off. It didn't kill her—yet—but he was fairly certain that when he left her there, bleeding everywhere, with her jaw and nose blown off and a gaping whole in her throat and her busted hip, she'd probably croaked sooner or later.

Sometimes this storytelling tactic worked, especially if Creed managed to get just the right tone of satisfaction, nostalgia, and blatant threat in his voice and his gestures. October's fear would spike, her heartrate would accelerate, and she'd be jumpy and edgy all day—which served Victor's purposes just fine.

Other times, the Morgan bitch just looked fascinated. He realized quickly that while she might fear his violence, she was more impressed by his intelligence and sardonic wit than his ability to tear someone's throat out. When she listened to him at these times, she got the same look she'd had on her face the night he'd bit his palm and she'd brushed her soft fingers over the skin, completely wrapped up in the idea of him.

Creed wasn't sure if he liked this or not. He often relied on people underestimating him, thinking he was stupid muscle, and clearly, neither October—or McQuay, for that matter—were fooled.

Still, it gave him some sort of pause: knowing how intrigued she was, by him. That she concerned herself—with _him._ He wondered if it was just because she knew she'd die if he wasn't happy with her. She was always tentative in her actions and touches since the night he'd broken her bracelet and crushed her body against the wall.

He found he liked it that way. Maybe he was teaching her something after all.

Still, that she aws always turning inquisitive eyes up on him hen he mentioned something from the old days—it was a heady thing. It was almost as much of a rush as getting a new assignment. It made him feel _important._

It made him want to fuck her even more. Harder. Faster, Longer. Make her bleed, make her cry, make her beg. For him, or for death.

At the store, he ordered her to get whatever she needed, too. Demurely, she'd stocked up on a couple boxes of cereal, a gallon of milk, some hot pockets and then—splurging—a dozen tiny cartons of flavored yogurt.

"Don't you eat anything else?" he'd asked. Surely that birdlike apetite wasn't healthy for even a normal human frail.

She shrugged. "I learned not to eat much, growing up. Keep my expenses slim. I was saving money for…things."

He thought about keeping her after the mission was over. Taking her with him, making her his. Feeding her _real _food—sushi and liquer sorbetto. Getting her buzzed and seeing what she was like when drunk. He imagined her giddy and silly and overly affectionate, those ridiculously tender and generous touches. The thought made his blood hot. She was already curvy, like he liked, but he'd make her even moreso, and then take his pleasure at her softness.

Fattening her up like a sweet piece of meat before enjoying the meal.

He was leaning against the counter, thinking about this and watching her while she popped in a movie and asked him to sit with her. He turned her down without a word, inclining his head and looking away, but keeping an eye on her through the corner of his gaze. Regardless of how much he wanted to fuck her till she cried, he didn't like not being able to figure her out. Not being able to figure himself out. Not being able to clearly evaluate her obscene generosity, what she intended to gain by it. It pissed him off, got him angry.

"You do know I'm not letting you go after this," he stated coldly after a few minutes. "I'll kill you first."

She didn't even take her eyes off the TV, but a small curl of mirth twitched the corner of her mouth. "I do."

He growled. Even _he _wasn't certain if he was going to simply fuck and slaughter her, or keep her around for as long as she could survive his brutality. And yet she seemed to have everything figured out. Silently, he raged against her quiet certainty and confidence, smoldering and festering in his fury as he watched her.

She fell asleep halfway through the movie—again. He wondered if she'd ever seen the ending of any of them. He chucked a blanket at her, hard, startling her from her sleep. She wrapped up in it lazily, popping all her joints again before settling down like a cat, and he flicked off the TV with a remote. "'Night, dear," she murmured into herfolded arms, still halfway-asleep.

He stared at her, long and hard and baffled and angry, before flicking off the lamp and moving back to the bedroom.


	8. Chapter III: The Captive, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter III: The Captive, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: Sorry for my incredible typos. As I mentioned before, spell-check isn't working so I try to manually check all my random missing and/or flip-flopped letters. Usually about a handful of them escape me while I edit, and then I find them after they've been posted. I'm always tempted to re-post but I feel like if some of my readers got alerts for chapters they'd already read, they'd be quite unhappy campers!**

**The "coffin" remark was originally made by someone else at some other time—I can't remember who or when. Maybe from a book or a movie. Anyway, I can't claim credit for it, but I thought it was fitting, character-considered.**

**Again, sorry for any typos. Hope the next two chapters are enjoyable for you!**

**Also, the smut countdown:**

**The Captive, Part III**

**The Drowning Man, Part I [SMUT]**

**(and more…)**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

October woke again around four in the morning. She could hear thrashing down the hall, a feral growling. It sounded like her captor was going to put a hole in the wall. Hesitantly, she rose from the couch, looking around. Another muffled snarl had her skirting furniture in the dark, heading nervously down the hall.

She tapped lightly on the door, but Creed didn't answer. Instead, there was a hefty thump, as though he'd struck something in his movements. She popped the doorknob—he'd locked it from the inside, but she'd forgotten to tell him the lock didn't work. Hesitantly, she opened the door halfway, but when he bellowed a roar, she slipped in without a second thought and moved to the bed.

"Mr Creed?" Her hand lightly brushed his arm in the dark, then rested on his chest, trying to soothe him. "Mr—"

He was up like a shot, his hand so tight on her wrist that the bones ground together. His claws dug into the fragile skin and he bent her arm at an impossible angle. She could feel the bones bowing under his grip. She arched her back, trying to release some of the pressure on her arm, gasping. In the same moment, his other arm lashed around as he rolled toward her, his claws extended. He brought them up sharply, intending to drive them diagonally through her stomach and up under the ribs.

Then he caught the scent of her: fear, almonds, sunshine.

He stilled, his claws just knicking the skin. The smell of her blood hit the air as he stared at her, into those hopelessly dark eyes.

His throat went dry and he tightened his grip reflexively; she gasped again, wincing as the bones in her arm creaked.

He released her immediately. "The _fuck_ did I say about touching me?!" he bellowed, leaning over her and fisting a handful of sheets on her other side. His claws cut through the white cotton and into his own palm, drawing blood. The skin knitted together around his nails. "What the _fuck_ did I say?"

"I—I was worried," she choked out, her arms on either side of her head. She was pure submission like that: a beautifully soft, surrendering woman. His mouth watered in spite of his rage. "You were—"

"I was _what?"_ he growled, his voice a warning.

She fell silent. Then, "Nothing. I was—I had a dream."

He stilled. She was lying. He knew better. "So you came to _me_ for comfort?" he sneered. He let his hand open and flatten, falling on her abdomen. "I can only give one kind of comfort, frail…and I've been told it isn't all that _comfortable."_

She licked her lips, her fear apparent. "Just let me—please—may I hold you?"

He stared down at her. _Idiot. Stupid, stupid girl. _She was quivering with fear, but also resolve. Every bone and delicate sinew in her body was quaking. He could feel her practically humming beneath him, and he was so—

_Torn._

Furiously, he let her loose, flinging her away from him so hard she rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a muffled thump, and he rolled onto his other side. "Get out," he snarled, his voice slow and low and cold. "If you know what's good for you—go."

He heard her stand and felt the mattress give way under her weight, felt her shift—_toward _him—and then her hand was resting lightly on his shoulder. It slid down his arm in the gentlest caress he'd ever felt, lingering in the dips and lines of his muscles. Then her mouth was pressed lightly against his shoulder—not a kiss, exactly, but a supplication. "Please," she said quiety, her lips brushing softly against him as she spoke. "I'd like to stay, if you'll let me."

_Please. I'd like to stay._

He didn't think anyone had ever pleaded to stay with him before.

Again, he envisioned McQuay's cane striking toward her, as though she were _his_ to damage and own.

Well, she wasn't. She wasn't McQuay's.

He rolled over suddenly, pinning her, gripping her shoulders and slamming her back into the pillows so hard that it jarred an involuntary half-yelp from her, and she hiccupped on it. Her eyes were wide and he glowered at her, suddenly infuriated beyond all measure.

"You're mine," he snapped out, barely aware of the thought till he'd voiced it. He picked her up by the shoulders, just a little, and slammed her back down. "Say you're mine."

Her hands, trembling, came up to frame his face. He felt the coolness of her fingers, tracing through the fine fur on his jaw, and tightened his hold on her shoulders again. "I—" Again, that uncertain half-smile, like she was trying to find amusement even though she thought he might rip her throat out. "I—don't think that's exactly fair."

He stared at her, frustrated and stunned. Women didn't say that. They fought, or they submitted in fear. They didn't gently rebuke him with light touches and half-sad words.

"What's fair, then?" he ground out, his teeth clenched. It did not occur to him to tell her that life had never been fair to him. "What do you want?" He thought about the resources at his disposal, as a mutant with unlimited privileges. Who knew what a woman placed value in? Wilson and Dukes had always lauded the use of jewelry in winning a woman's favors. "Pearls? Diamonds? Shiny things to put in your ears?" Out of habit, he sneered, but he didn't feel it. He only knew he'd give her the world, bloody and mangled, if she would say belonged to him.

He would lay kill after kill at her feet.

She flinched that time, and he was surprised, but then she said, "I'm not a _whore,_" and his eyes hardened even further.

They turned smoky then, alluring, as he lowered his mouth a hair's breadth away from hers.

"I can give you anything you want," he rumbled against her. "Anything in the world." Her breasts were soft beneath his chest. "Say you're mine," he purred in her ear.

She leaned back, trying to see him, and his eyes flicked down to the line of her throat. She was so goddam _fragile._

She caught his eyes then—where he was looking—and she tipped her head up higher, displaying the fine bones in her throat. With eyelids slowly lowering, demurely, she tilted her chin down to her right shoulder, exposing the vulnerable flesh and artery in her neck.

The offering was a clear gesture of submission, and it assuaged some of his possessive fury. He bent his head, faster than a serpent's strike, and nipped the skin sharply, drawing blood. His tongue laved the fine wounds; he scraped his teeth lightly down the line of her flesh, then bit again, more gently, holding the skin between his teeth for a moment.

_Dominance_.

He leaned in more fully, suddenly realizing how blindingly unaware he'd been of that fact that he was situated just perfectly between her thighs. He ground his erection against her core, nipping again at her throat, taking the warm flesh in his mouth.

She let him enjoy. If he wasn't mistaken, she enjoyed it too—soft mewling sounds came from her throat, and the unmistakable musk of her arousal was heavy in the air. He licked one firm stroke up her throat, from collarbone to chin, savoring the taste of salt and skin. He knew how to make women helpless, but her reactions weren't entirely what he was used to, and he found it intoxicating. He felt her thighs quiver, then shift around his hips, cradling him welcomingly between her legs. He wondered if she had noticed yet that he was entirely naked.

"That's my girl," he half-snarled. It was a line he usually used scathingly, with great humor, when he forced a woman to do something she didn't want. Now, however, he braced himself on one forearm, never ceasing his assault on her throat, and slid the opposite hand lingerly down her side, his claws snagging the cotton of her shirt and then scraping lightly over her hip. He drew her leg in more tightly against his side. He growled and nipped her earlobe, moved down to lick and bite at the elegant line of her collarbone.

"Anything you want," he repeated, almost senseless with the pleasure of her voluntary submission. "Anything—" a growl, feverish bites to her throat and the skin of her bared shoulder. "Anything in the world—just admit you belong to _me."_

Then her voice, a sad murmur into her shoulder—"You can't give me what I want."

He reared back, stunned. The air on her damp neck was suddenly cold, and she turned her face toward him. Her eyes were wide and barren as she looked up at him, watching his eyebrows furrow in rage and his nostril flare.

"You don't know how," she whispered.

He imagined, briefly, gripping her by the hair and twisting her head clean off. Throwing it against the wall.

"Fine," he said suddenly, his voice cool, his expression clearing. He grinned instead, a savage baring of teeth, and ran his tongue over his fangs so she could see him. "If you won't give it—"

And he flipped her beneath him, one hand on the crown of her head, pinning it to the pillows as he lashed his other huge forearm under her stomach, lifting her ass high in the air in front of him. He leaned over her, his stomach against her back, his chilled metal dogtags lying on the bare skin above her tank top, and rumbled nastily into her ear, "—I'll just have to take it."

"Mr Creed," she choked into the pillow, a half-hearted protest of shock and alarm as he ground against her.

"I think I like this positionbetter," he snarled. She could hear the self-satisfied grin in his voice. "You under me like this, right like you belong. _Beneath me._" He chuckled, leaning to growl into her hair. "Like a little _animal."_

She twisted and tried to kick at him. One foot actually caught him in the thigh, but it was like bouncing a pebble off a boulder, and he laughed. "You didn't expect to _crawl_ into my bed begging to stay and not have to pay the fee, did you, bitch?"

She tried to slide away, but he followed her till he'd wedged her head against the mattress and the headboard. "I could pop your skull like a grape right now," he mused. "Fuck you till your hips crack. They'll have to bury you in a Y-shaped coffin." She snarled an unintelligable curse at him, and he leaned back, surprised, and roared with laughter. "Spitfire," he mocked. "I'm going to enjoy taking you like the bitch-in-heat you are_."_

He slid a sharp-clawed hand under her soft belly, raking the skin open in shallow furrows as she bucked and arched away from him, her breath a hiss of pain. When he got to her sports bra, he gripped a handful of the elastic material beween her breasts—soft, he could feel them against his clenched fist—and ripped the thick fabric away. She gasped and drove back against him so hard that the back of her skull cracked against his mouth, and for a moment he felt blood when his lip split and healed.

Furious now, he yanked her thin sweatpants from her hips. The drawstring snapped with the force of his pull and she yelped just as he caught himself pausing and staring at her firm rear encased in dark blue bikinis.

His throat went dry. She was struggling under him, and he thought of how dismal things would be if he broke her. Sure, there would be that high that came with complete domination and triumph, the reaffirmation that he was stronger than absolutely everything in this world…but then what?

Boredom.

_Again_.

Till the next kill.

He was no Wade Wilson—he didn't have some pretty little thing waiting for him to toy with in the time between missions. And no matter what _she_ said about him having women who were willing, she'd proven herself that it wouldn't be the case.

If you wanted something, you had to fucking _take it. _

For the first time ever, though, Victor Creed wasn't sure what he wanted.

"Maybe I won't," he said after a moment. She had gone still beneath him and the sharp scent of tears hit the air. "Maybe I'll just—" He reached for his jeans, on the floor, and yanked the belt out of the waistband. It snapped in the air like a whip, with the buckle whistling as he struck the wood floor with it. Her struggles renewed with a gasp, her bottom wriggling against his abdomen as she tried to slip out of his grasp. He pressed against her harder, not leaving room for her to flatten out on the bed, keeping her ass hoisted in the air.

He flicked his wrist and expertly folded the belt in half, one-handed.

"Where do you think?" he asked nastily. "Where should I start? This sweet ass?" He snapped her rear with the belt, just enough to sting. He felt her tense against him, but she didn't move—obviously, she'd braced herself for harder.

"Your pretty thighs?" he asked with a sneer, sliding the leather across them. She did flinch then. His false tenderness was more terrifying than his open rage.

"What about your puss?" he growled, slippping his arm under her belly to tap her between the legs. She bucked like wild against him then and for a moment he savored the feel of it—her hot, wriggling, soft body. It would give way so easily beneath his claws.

"Don't you fight me, frail!" he roared.

With a solid warning stroke, he brought the belt down hard on the pillow in front of her face, where he held her head pinned. A puff of feathers shot into the air and she froze, staring at the frayed edges of the newly-sliced pillow. With his strength, she had no doubt that—at best—her skin would be purple and black in the morning, a solid spreading bruise like an inkstain.

More than likely, even if he didn't kill her, the leather belt would slice through her skin and leave her permanently scarred.

He was staring too, though she couldn't see it. One might think that he would grow used to the delicacy of normal people, but sometimes he forgot. It always seemed so simple to kill them when he wanted to…

He suddenly realized he was completely unaware of how to keep them _alive._

Once or twice, he'd taken his pleasure from a woman and then shredded them to ribbons with his claws, falling asleep a foot or two away while their blood steamed in the air and they drowned in their own destroyed lungs. Seeing them when he woke up brought a kind of remembered satisfaction, and then they were forgotten.

When he thought about waking up next to a torn October, it disconcerted him—threw him off. He wasn't entirely sure he liked the image.

_Please. I'd like to stay._

He dropped the belt and moved backward. "Get out," he growled.

She seemed to melt into the bed, all her bones liquified with fear.

"Go," he snarled again, rolling onto his back and stretching out. He tucked his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and trying to look nonchalant. "Before I change my mind."

She tried to roll over, but the sweatpants he'd torn from her tangled in her legs. Flustered, she tore at them, and finally kicked them away weakly before throwing her head back into the destroyed pillow and staring at the feathers that were newly airborne.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, frail?" he snapped.

She didn't look at him. She didn't answer. He cussed and yanked his arms out from under his head, popping his knuckles in an empty display of menace and lengthening his claws to scratch his chest.

_Remember that I'm an animal,_ he thought at her fiercely, letting his clawed hand fall to the blanket beside him. He pierced the fabric and dug his fingers into the mattress, seething at the ceiling when she didn't move. All he could hear was the slowing of her breathing, the steadying of her heart as the adrenaline drained from her system.

Then, in the darkness, the cool touch of her fingertips, quivering with the sudden weakness left by her adrenaline rush. They traced the tendons in his hand and slid down between his fingers, holding his hand in the dark.


	9. Chapter III: The Captive, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter III: The Captive, Part III**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: This is the last chapter before the smut. OMG. I hope this is a believable progression…**

**Still to come:**

**The Drowning Man, Part I [SMUT]**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He woke up suddenly. He'd never been a slow waker, though whether that was due to his nature or his training was still undecided.

There was a slight heaviness on his chest and he slid back on the pillows, propping himself on the headboard and staring downward. October was curled against him, her cheek pressed against his heart, one slim arm thrown around his waist. Her pretty mouth was parted, the corner of her lips pressed against him in an unconcious kiss.

Her hair was a tangled nest of sweet golden curls and white feathers. She smelled like almonds and skin and blood.

For a moment, he remembered a time when he'd been dropped from a helicoptor into a warzone out in 'Nam. A gust of wind had caught his chute and he'd found himself in a river. It had been a simple enough thing to cut the cords with his claws and swim to the shore, but for a moment, he'd experienced a brief flare of blind hopelessness and panic. His limbs were tangled in the nylon ropes; the current was sweeping his waterlogged chute downstream. It had been generations since he'd swam in water over his head; he found that his adult-acquired muscle-mass weighed him down in the water. For a few strangled seconds, he guttered and flailed. Water slid coldly up his nose and flooded his mouth, and he was suddenly sure that he'd found the edge of his immortality.

The sensation of drowning came back to him now.

He'd never been one to cuddle. It wasn't his style. Of course it was probably fairly normal to not curl up with a broad you'd just killed, but even the women he'd left alive—well, he usually just shoved their battered, shell-shocked bodies unceremoniously to the floor, let them crawl out of the room clutching the destroyed remains of their clothing around them.

Sex for him was release. Same as bloodshed. There was no need for closeness beyond the grip of his claws in a woman's breast, or his teeth latched onto her jugular. But October's leg, bereft of its sweatpants from the night before, looped over his and tucked firmly thigh-to-thigh. And her smooth skin against his hairy muscles felt like—

He lifted one clawed hand and delicately plucked a white feather from her curls. Hesitantly, he laid his palm against the side of her head, letting his fingers curl in the tangled mop of hair. She stirred, her mouth closing, and tightened her arm around him, snuggling into his side.

He stared blankly across the room and suddenly registered the sight of himself in the mirror, leaning against the headboard, his hand curled in her fountain of blond hair. The crisp white sheets bared his chest, her arm draped over him, the line of her shoulderblade. In the mirror, he looked like a satisfied man with a pretty, delicate, thoroughly-pleased, thoroughly-_fucked_ wife.

It was a lie, of course, but for a minute, he let himself revel in the thought. He imagined what it would be like to have a woman who _wanted_ him, who curled up against him, who pouted prettily and begged not for him to spare her, but for him to _take_ her, _please,_ and whose desperate wriggles were not to get away, but to get _closer._

He looked down at her again and noticed, suddenly, the purple smudges lining her upper arm. He brushed a thumb over them, bewildered, before remembering how he'd snapped her back into the pillows.

_Say you're mine._

He thought, for just a brief unguarded moment, that he was just as much her captive as she was his.

The thought vied with his sensibilities and his pride. Instinctively, his head tilted and he snarled low in his throat, irritated at himself for his ridiculous internal conflict, and irritated at her for her fragility. The growl rumbled in his chest and she stirred again, her eyes fluttering open briefly before she closed them and yawned, stretching against him. He froze, feeling the line of her body straighten itself, bowing and arching and rippling against him like a knotted silk scarf. The leg between his straightened and slid against his; the arm across his chest straightened; her breasts—bereft of the sports bra she'd worn the night before—pushed into his side before she murmured, "'Morning, sunshine."

He thought he might be hearing things. The langourous clicking of her popped joints met his ears. Wrists extended and flexed, shoulders, hips, ankles. She half-rolled and a series of snaps echoed from the curlof her back. He waited for her to stumble from the bed and try to run.

But then she curled back into him, dropping a kiss over his heart, and plucking a feather from her own long hair and examining it with a bemused expression.

Then, with a look of recognition, she slipped out from under his arm, frowning, and turned to stare at the pillow he'd sliced through with nothing more than a leather belt—a leather belt he'd planned, however shortly, on using on her.

He waited for her anger, her fear. Instead:

"You killed my pillow last night."

A playful pout.

"What did it ever do to you?"

—as if this was his greatest sin against her. He watched, eyes hooded to hide his bafflement, while she moved to leave the bed, then yelped when she realized she wasn't wearing her sweatpants.

His mouth twitched and he could have almost laughed, if he hadn't been so perplexed.

And pissed. Because that was the natural order of things for him. Hurt a woman, and she's angry or scared. Throw his woldview into disarray, place him out of his element, and expect a painful retribution.

Eyes wide, she glanced around the room desperately before slithering off the bed, then yanking the sheet with her. He hollered then, a roar of surprise, a bit shocked that her modesty at being caught in her panties would override her need to keep his naked form covered. She laughed though, eyes sparkling, and fled the room.

For a moment, he debated going after her. He thought, in some ways, she would like it—the chase, the hunt. She had already proven, a dozen times over, that she was attracted to him and aroused by him, even in his violence.

He would love to stalk her like a stray deer.

Then he thought of how rough he'd been with her the night before, and how his fingers had left bruises on her arms. Granted, he'd been rougher with others in the past, but he hadn't _expected_ her to bruise under his grip. _That _was what bothered him. If he wanted to hurt her, then it was all good. He'd thought enough times about all the ways and all the places he'd make her bleed. But to hurt her without intending it, when he just wasn't paying attention due to his own anger—that got under his skin. Pissed him off. Infuriated him all over again.

He remembered again how close he'd been to whipping her with his belt to teach her a lesson. If he'd gone through with it—beat her like he'd wanted—he'd be lucky if she was still alive this morning. Even if she was, she'd be suffering severe bloodloss and trauma.

Granted, if he had his say, he'd still teach her a lesson before his time here was done, but he envisioned her begging in a different way.

He justified it by thinking, _That's finishing the game before it even starts. If you kill her on accident, you won't get to use her as long or in all the ways you'd planned._

Not to mention he had extra to make up for now. Not only was he eventually going to take payment for her disrespect to him a few nights prior, but now—the knowledge hit him like a sledgehammer, or Dukes' fist—now she'd seen him vulnerable, too. She'd crept in on him while he was sleeping.

Held his fucking _hand, _like a child.

And he'd _let _her.

The anger that he had been stupefied to feel this morning uncurled in him like a mushroom cloud now. Oh, when this was over, she'd fucking _pay._ That shit was never getting out. He was going to fuck her so hard she'd never walk straight again, and live every moment of her life looking over her shoulder, afraid to speak lest he take it out on her flesh.

In spite of the fact that she's seen him vulnerable, he thought, sitting up and sliding into his jeans—she still shouldn't be teasing and playing with him now. She should be afraid of him, especially since he'd left bruises. That she wasn't—it fucked with his brain. He didn't know if he was going crazy or if she was themost braindead frail there'd ever been.

And the anger that was already there amplified tenfold.

He didn't take a beer from the fridge but made coffee—black—and let it scald his throat punishingly. He leaned over the sink, rotating his shoulder, thinking of how she'd smelled in the morning, curled against him, and how she hadn't pulled away like a frightened animal when she'd realized who it was she was curled against. It confused him, fucked with him, made him want to kill something. He thought about leaving—going out to that bar where he'd found the drunk asshole a week or so before—and decided against it.

He had a perfectly good victim to terrorize just down the hall, and damned if he wasn't going to use her. Fuck that. With the mental reassurance that he had a firm grip on himself and wouldn't hurt her unless he decided to, Creed stalked down the narrow hall, expecting to hear the water running in the shower. He'd say something nasty—_No wonder McQuay tried to take a swing at you the other night; you're the most frigid bitch I've met, and that's saying a lot—_then bark at her to hurry up because he had to piss.

He'd pick a fight. He hoped she'd cry. He'd take her bent over the edge of the bathtub, scrapping her knees on the goddamn tile—

Fucking _forget _McQuay and collateral and stupid-ass missions that had nothing in it for him. Nothing was standing in his way from fucking her blind this time around.

Once outside the bathroom door, he realized he hadn't heard the water start yet, and scowled before throwing it open.

He had been irritated at himself for his own confusion, and irritated at her for causing it. He had been planning on saying something cutting to her.

Instead, his mouth went dry.

October was standing on a stepstool in front of the mirror in her white tank top and panties, her hair twisted in one hand at the back of her head., one strap on her shirt pulled down to examine her shoulder more clearly. She gasped at the sight of him and moved to cover herself again with the sheet at her feet, but it was too late. He'd seen everything—her heavy breasts, braless under the shirt and delicately tipped with pebbled nipples—but also the harsh red streak over the flesh between her hips and thighs, like a burning lash. The nips and scrapes and bruises on the side of her neck, from chin to collarbone. The dried tracks of blood that had trickled down her neck from somewhere on her scalp. Her shirt was smudged red over her abdomen, where he'd nearly gutted her and clawed her. Her shoulders were bruised. She was purpled and battered and she looked like she'd been hit by a train. The mark from Thursday was still there, a thin pink and red line tracking from her jaw to her cleavage.

For a moment he was still, taking her in. She was prey now more than ever, and he was reminded of a pagan war-goddess, with feathers still haloed in her hair and the bloody sheet tucked under her battered arms, the blood streaking her throat and her tangled locks. She was scared, but she held her head regally still.

"Get in the shower," he said sharply.

"Wha—? I just—"

"Get in!" he barked, and didn't wait for a response, simply plucking her off the footstool and setting her firmly in the tub. He yanked the sheet away and turned on the showerhead full-blast. The woman yelped and darted away—_"Cold!"_—and he twisted the other knob till she nervously crept back into the spray.

He jerked the curtain shut on her and turned toward the toilet, unzipping his jeans and relieving himself to the sound of the running shower. When he was done, he hesitated, then tucked himself back in, zipped up, and pulled the curtain back open. She stared at him with wide eyes and he realized she hadn't moved since he'd closed the curtain on her—a ridiculous thing covered in blue fishes and green frogs—and she was shivering. His adding some warm water had made the shower tolerable, but still not exactly cozy. He stepped in, his pants immediately getting drenched, and nudged her out of the spray and so he could duck down to fuck with the stupid dials once more.

"I—"

"Shut up," he snapped, and soon steam was curling through the shower as the water grew hotter. He rose and turned to her then, towering over her. Her ribbed tank top was utterly soaked through and she had her arms crossed over her chest, her hands in tight fists. He eyed her speculatively, wondering if he should force her hands away and bare her breasts to his hungry gaze. With a muttered curse he spun her away from him, so that her back was under the spray once more. Her feet slid on the slick tub floor with the suddenness of the movement, but he gripped her bruised shoulders tightly till she regained her footing.

The warm water eased her tension immediately, and her slight frame sagged, relaxed. He _tsk_ed mentally—the silly girl had her back to a sabertooth and was letting her guard down. Not to mention that the view from the back wasn't too bad. Her blue panties had soaked through and he could clearly see the curve of each cheek of her ass. The shirt clung to her, translucent, so he could view at his leisure every blushing line of her shoulderblades and spine, the valley at the base of her back.

He scooped a handful of her wet, heavy hair aside, sliding it over her shoulder away from the bruised side of her neck. With slick, wet hands, he carefully cleaned away the hardened tracks of blood that had trickled out of her scalp, taking care where the hair had matted into the blood on her neck, and making sure not to pull. He delicately cleaned the shallow bites on her throat and shoulder, then plucked a bottle of shampoo from the hower ledge.

"What are you doing?" she asked, suddenly breaking the silence as he squeezed some of the shampoo into her hair.

He paused, then eased his hands against her scalp, his fingersprobing gently where he'd held her the night before. He didn't miss her wince when he found the spot—her scalp was slightly swollen, and he felt the superficial cuts left by his claws. They probably stung in the soap, but she was normal—and fragile—and he wouldn't risk her getting some stupid infection. The water was tinted faintly with red, but it didn't take long to run clean—he'd cut her only shallowly, but head wounds bled a lot.

"My brother and I," he said after a moment. "We used to run around all over the wilderness. Sometimes we got into scrapes." He glowered at the wall. "I had to take care of him." The words were bitter, calling to mind the times Jimmy had been scared in the darkness. Or in the beginning, when Jimmy had been sick, and it had been cold out, and Victor had built a shelter with his own cracked and frozen hands, just for the ungrateful runt. When people got mad and tried to hurt them, or chase them out of a village or settlement. When they were hungry, and Victor went without so Jimmy could eat.

Or when the kid's re-gen factor hadn't kicked in yet, and the wounds left by his bone claws stayed open for days. Victor had licked the wounds on the younger boy's knuckles like a giant cat, trying to keep them clean and free of dirt—no easy feat in the Canadian forests.

He thought about licking her wounds, but it didn't seem right, since he'd made them.

And what was it about her that had him so tangled in knots anyway? Not knowing what he wanted, second-guessing himself.

He wrapped the length of her hair in one fist and tugged gently, baring his teeth over the top of her head at the thought. The tug pulled her closer to him under the spray and let it rinse the suds from her hair in long ropes of bubbles. He leaned over, slipping soapy hands beneath her soaked shirt and letting his fingers pry along the shallow ruts he'd put in her belly the night before. He felt her cringe and heard the sharp intake of her breath, a hiss of pain, but then she was silent as he cleaned the wounds carefully, trying not to aggravate the little flaps of loose skin.

God, her skin was hot and wet and sleek, and his hand slid higher. Dammitall to hell, he'd come in here to fuck her, and why shouldn't he? He was about to zero in on her breast, feel the slick skin in his hand when she spoke.

"I'm sorry."

He stilled, his hand cupping the fragile shelf of her ribs. He didn't think he'd ever heard those words directed at him before. Well, not from anyone but her.

Well, not from anyone not begging for their life, anyway.

"I didn't—" She paused, and he could tell she was groping for words. "I didn't think. When I came in last night."

Her selflessness was stupid. It had almost gotten her killed. His lip curled up in a sneer—it was his best defense against the possessive instincts rising in him.

"I didn't mean to tease."

He nearly choked.

She really was remarkably brainless. Coming in to save the monster from his own demons, she'd gotten caught up in them. It was foolish and naïve and _dangerous_, but if anyone should be apologizing—

And all she'd said was that he couldn't give her what she wanted.

He turned her toward him. The spray hit her squarely in the face and she squawked. Without thinking, he lifted one hand to shield her eyes. He didn't look down—he knew he'd get caught up in the way her breasts looked under the wet, transparent fabric of her shirt.

"You said I couldn't give you what you want," he growled. "But I can give you _anything,_ frail. I have unlimited resources at my fingertips. All I want in return is you."

Not just her body. Her everything. He wanted it to be _his,_ dammit, all of it.

She opened her mouth to say something but he pressed a clawed finger to her mouth, tapping her plush lips warningly. "F'you don't want jewelry? Fine." It was a warning growl, furious and demanding. "I can give you a mansion in the mountains full of any books you could ever want to read. A greenhouse full of those stupid pink lilies you like. I can feed you the finest foods there ever was. Have you dressed in beautiful clothes. I can take you out to see the world. Operas. Plays. Symphonies. Whatever you want—you just have to be mine. Do what I say. Let me have you whenever I fucking _want. _Say you'll never let anyone else touch you. Say—"

She caught at his hand, easing it down away from her mouth and pressing his palm flat to her chest just above her breasts. He straightened his fingers. He could span her collarbone from wingtip to wingtip. It was fragile as a bird's bone beneath his hand. He could feel her heart beating like a little rabbit's.

"What do you want?" he asked forcefully, lowly, his voice like gravel. He didn't have any idea how one went about securing a woman's faithfulness, but damned if he wasn't going to get it one way or another.

She shook her head. "That's the problem with your offers, Mr. Creed. I don't want furs or jewels or a mansion in the mountains." She pressed both hands over his, against her heart. He could feel it thrumming steadily against him. "You really have no idea why I like you, do you?"

His brow knitted. He said nothing. Who'd said anyhing about her _liking _him? He wasn't stupid, He didn't care if she _liked _him. He just wanted to own her. And he knew he wasn't a likeable man. Maybe scary, intimidating, powerful, violent—but likeable?

No.

Her dark wide eyes looked earnest, though. Wide, truthful. "I have so much respect for you, and it's not even because—I know you think it's because you're bigger than me, and stronger than me, and you can…eat me alive or something—"

His grin turned harder, more threatening, and she flushed.

"Not—God, can you focus?" she yelped when he moved in closer to her.

He sneered down at her. "But you're so…_wet."_

"Surely, you know you're not without your charms, Mr. Creed," she murmured, looking distressed. He blinked at her, then leered again, and she blushed at his blatantly sexual thoughts. "Not—I just mean—" And then: "I don't respect you."

He blinked, his smirk turning cold. He dropped his hand, fisting it in her soaked shirt as he moved to lift her right off her damn feet. _What the hell kind of game is she playing?_

She went on despite the fact that she was on her tiptoes, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet porcelain, her hands on his wrist the only thing holding her up. He was looming over her, his fangs bared, ready to tear her goddamn throat out.

"Not because of how mean you can be, or how you can hurt me. I don't respect you because you are so..._skilled_ at disrespecting others."

He stilled, his massive fist still knotted in her shirt, right between her full breasts. She met his eyes evenly, steadily, dipping her head a little to look up at him through her wet lashes.

"I respect you because I think you're smart. Brilliant, really. And even if you're mean and bitter and vulgar, you're _funny._ Witty. And honest. I think—I think you must have been through a lot. Seen a lot in all the…however-many-years you've been around. I like listening to your stories, when you're actually willing to tell them to me. I like that you get mad at movies. I like that you stopped Dean from cracking me open with that damn cane of his the other night. And I'm so…so impressed by so many things about you, Mr Creed." Her eyes were wide and desperately honest, fastened on his. She reached up, still standing on her toes just to press her hands to the sides of his face. He let go of her shirt and moved his hand upward, spanning her chest as before, letting his hot, heavy palm rest on the slick upper curve of her breasts.

He eyed her silently, blank-faced, implacable. He didn't know what to make of her. He only knew he should kill her now, for confusing him. For making him want something more than a fuck-and-kill. Her flattery was likely a defense mechanism. Make the monster feel good and he won't tear you to pieces.

And it was working.

And he didn't care.

He liked what she was saying. It made him feel, in some weird way, even more powerful.

She must have seen something that reassured her, though, because she smiled then, laughed, and eased suddenly, her hands sliding to his shoulders, then down his arms, resting on the inside curves of his elbows. "Don't be so surprised." She gnawed at her lip and he wanted to bite it, just gently, just enough to worry it between his teeth—for now. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I enjoy your strength." A pause. "I enjoy…what you can…do to me."

It was a breathless, almost mortified admission. Heat curled in him. He _could,_ too. He could do anything he wanted to her, make her completely his. He could make her _like _it. Could make her beg for it, if he tried.

"But I also enjoy just _being_ with you," she murmured after a moment, looking embarassed, looking anywhere but at him. She suddenly realized how nearly-naked she was and her hands moved to shelter herself again, but this time he caught them in his spare hand, one fist engulfing both her wrists—_almost_ gently—as he pushed her back toward the far wall of the shower. She bumped it lightly and he pushed her down till she slid, eyes wide, and he was crouched over her reclining form in the bottom of the tub like a hungry beast bent over its prey.

The water showered down over the two of them, and he watched it beat against her tummy and breasts. He could see the pink of her nipples through the wet, ribbed fabric.

_Take what you want._

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A preview to upcoming chapters…**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part I: SMUT. **

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part II: SMUT. Also, more fun interactions with Dean McQuay! A brief summary of days, more implied smut, and Victor allows the unexpected. Twice.**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part III: Sexual tension and plot-clues. Toby goes to court as an advocate and paralegal for **_**Roman v. Roman,**_** where Vic gets to see his kitten's claws—and some insight into how the rest of the world views the once-famous October Morgan. Creed tells a story about himself and Jimmy. Mild, implied sexiness.**

**and more…**


	10. Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: This one's going at the beginning AND the end of the chapter in the hopes that people read it. ;) **

I have no idea how I did in this chapter (which is pretty much just entirely sex). I'm going to ask that **for this chapter,** **critical input be related mainly to style and technical feedback**, since—well—it's a fantasy and therefore, some people are bound to be disappointed.

**Please note the Rating & Reasoning at the top of the page: DARK SEX. I've read darker, actually, but I wanted to make sure everyone was prepared. It might not be your cup of tea; that's okay. Just consider yourself warned. **

While writing this one of the main things I wanted to do (along with, of course, to titillate and excite you, dear readers) was to keep it "real" (or something close). Even at his gentlest/kindest/fluffiest…we're talking about a man whose claws shred steel-bodied cars without effort. I can't imagine him ever "fingering" a girl in the typical method without doing some serious damage. As much as I'd love to have him in my bed, I never want one of those fucking claws inside me, thanks.

He's also spent a lot more time in the last century learning all the different way to kill people with his hands than he has spent time learning the art of "tender touching." You take on a man like this, you better be expecting to look like you just got in a fucking trainwreck.

And he's a big fuckin' guy. Size aside, a guy that brutal can cause serious medical damage to a girl (and while we're never clear on the topic, October may be virginal as well). There are plenty of women out there who have to get surgery done to get rid of vaginal and cervical scarring (which will be mentioned later in the story as well) due to too much of this rough treatment.

**That said, thank you all again for taking time to read the A/N, and again: I appreciate any stylistic/technical criticism, or general support/encouragement.**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

_Take what you want._

He let his hand slide down from her wrists, skimming over the nipple, his claws scratching her lightly though the fabric.

She jolted as though an electric current had run through her. He raised his eyebrows, half-mocking, half-questioning, and then slid his hand over to her other breast. She whimpered deep in her throat, and though she sounded like she was dying, it was somehow much sweeter to his ears than the moan of a true victim.

He leaned forward, balancing on the balls of his toes in the narrow bathtub. She was eyeing him, her eyes wide, following the trails of water that streamed over his arms and shoulders and chest, down his abdomen, in rivulets that seemed predetermined by his body's muscles. When her pupils dilated and she licked her lips self-consciously, he grinned and leaned closer. Baring fangs just an inch away from her breast, he purred, "I'm so thirsty right now. I want to suck all the water right out of your shirt." To emphasize his point, he delicately flicked his tongue over one nipple.

Her reaction was completely unexpected. She gasped out a strangled cry and her body arched in the tub like a bow. He stared, eyes implacable though inside he was stunned, as she trembled, her back still curved upward, her weight resting on her feet and shoulders as she strained toward him.

How much more marvelous and satisfying than killing her.

The slick surface of the tub suddenly gave way and her heels slid out from under her. He swung one arm under the small of her back as she fell, catching her before she could crack her tailbone on the porcelain. She barely noticed though—her eyes were glazed and she reached for him again.

He stood easily, swinging her up in his arms, turning off the water, and stepping from the tub. He set her on the narrow ledge of the counter and, with one nail, he expertly sliced open her tank top, peeling the wet layers back from her skin. Her eyes were wide and he caught a whiff of her scent: she was utterly terrified, and entirely aroused. The fragrance was intoxicating and he cut away her panties with deft claws.

She was quivering like a bowstring, her hands grasping the edge of the counter by her thighs, white-knuckled in the intensity of her grip. He slid the side of his index finger down through her folds and was gratified to find her slick and heated. She mewled when he touched her, arching back, her breasts pointing toward him daintily.

"These as soft as they look, frail?" he asked her, his growl low and wicked when he slid his wet hands over her delicate ribs and cupped both breasts, weighing them in his hands. She gasped as he slid his palms over the sleek, damp skin, massaging her nipples with rough fingers. She let out a half-moan, her eyes locked on the sight of his dark, massive hands on her, working her over with surprising deftness, and he grinned harder.

"Like the sight of me on you, little girl?"

He didn't wait for a verbal answer; he could smell her arousal spiking at his words. With a gloating grin, he rasped his tongue, flat and wide, over one nipple like a cat, and she nearly buckled in on herself. Growling with satisfaction, he removed his hands from her breasts, scraping his nails lightly down her thighs, cupping his hands to the soft backs of her knees, and dragging her forward to the edge of the countertop.

She scrambled for purchase, eyes wide with the fear that she would fall, and he snarled warningly down at her, unzipping his drenched jeans as he dragged her closer. "Trust me," he hissed, his voice angry and harsh. Later he would think how ridiculous it was—anyone thinking they could trust Victor Creed. At the time, though—thoughtlessly, selfishly—he demanded it.

And she didn't question it, or turn away from the harshness of his command. Instead she flung her hands toward him, hanging onto his broad shoulders instead of the counter. Her breasts were hot and slippery against his wet chest and he could have roared at the feel of them.

She wouldn't call herself his—_yet. _That was fine. He could work around it.

"Tell me you want me," he ground out, sliding his erection along her folds. Her face was buried in his shoulder as she feverishly lapped at his skin, her body clinging to his. It was a marvel, how desperately she clutched at him. As though she'd die if he _didn't_ take her, rather than dying if he did.

Instead of responding, she gave a frantic little moan, her blunt teeth peppering bites and licks over his skin. He leaned into her, then slid his hands up from her leg to cup her breasts again. She almost sobbed when he rubbed lazy circles with his thumbs around her areolae, then flicking the calloused pads over her nipples.

"Tell me you want me," he repeated, his voice ferocious in her ear. He maybe didn't understand how to convince a woman to give herself entirely to him, but he was an expert in torture, and he knew she was close to giving him what he wanted. He sank his teeth into her shoulder, lightly scraping his claws over her breasts and thumbing her nipples roughly.

He didn't know what kind of reaction it would wring from her. He expected a yelp of pain, perhaps, or even whispered supplications for gentleness on her frail body. She surprised him instead with a desolate cry, her hands wrapping around his thick shaft as she begged, _"Please—"_

He'd heard people beg before. Enough _pleases_ to last a hundred lifetimes. From her lips, though—in this way—it was his undoing.

"Close enough," he rumbled, delicately clawing her hands away, lifting her just a little, and then sliding home.

She yelped at the size of him, the inevitable ache that would come from being suddenly stretched so wide. For a moment, he almost hesitated, but then pulled out and slammed back into her brutally. The thick, coppery smell of blood hit the air, driving him wild. With the softer side of one knuckle—instinctively protecting her damp flesh from his own sharp claw—he reached down between them, rubbing the curled finger against her clit.

Her tightness was almost mind-numbing as he withdrew and returned, and he didn't have to think about the fact that _he shouldn't care about hurting her._ Instead, at the insistent circling of his knuckle, she relaxed around him. He withdrew once more before crashing against her again. Her half-pained moan turned to a strangled cry of pleasure and with his other arm he hoisted her clear off the countertop, slamming her down onto him once more.

She choked on a cry of mingled pain and pleasure, on the force with which he drove into her.

"That's a sweet sound, sugar," he snarled against her. "Lemme hear it again."

He plunged into her again bruisingly, and she gasped out another cry of desire and surprise at the sensation. Her body bucked in his arms, driving him deeper.

Her arms tangled around his neck, desperately—he felt the brief sting of her nails on his back as she clawed to get closer, and knew the thin tracks of red scratches were healing along his back almost as soon as she made them. Still, the feel of her savage, reckless assault on his back had him roaring—she was a spitfire, and he swung her around, still drilling into her unbelievably tight, hot core.

"Say it or not," he ground out into her ear a she rocked desperately against him, "you're _mine,_ little girl."

Her body bowed backward as she came at his possessive words, and the only thing that kept her from crashing to the ground was his arm around her waist. Her muscles tightened deliciously, strangling his cock as she leaned back at an impossible angle, her hair brushing the floor as he slid his free hand across the horizontal plane of her stomach and his previous, angry marks, then stroked the soft underside of one breast.

The sight of her, so completely at his mercy—_belly-up—_combined with the feel and the scent of her, pushed him over the edge. He extended his claws just a bit, raking them over her belly, careful to avoid the previous tears and watching as tiny drops of blood beaded to the surface in the wake of his assault. She arched even further, tightening deliciously around him as her orgasm unexpectedly rocked through her again.

"Sweet little bitch, aren't you?" he growled. The words weren't an insult, but an expression of grudging admiration. "Come for me one more time, sweetheart."

It was a random command, one he didn't expect her to be able to obey, but she leaned back even farther, driving him further inside her, her scream catching in her throat as her hair dragged against the ground. Her complete submission sent a surge of delicious animal pride through him, and slammed into her a final time and came with a roar, dragging her boneless body up to meet his.

He crashed the two of them against the bathroomwall, her back and his forearm bracing the two of them against it. For a second, it was all he could do to keep breathing. Her arms draped themselves weakly around his neck and for just a second, his leg felt strangely fluid. It was something he'd never experienced before, but he was too focused on the smell of her and remembering to breathe to examine it. His forehead leaned against hers as they panted, and her legs were wrapped loosely around his waist. He could feel the mucles in her legs quivering with exhaustion and over-exertion. Her cool, slim fingers stroked the short, dark hair at the base of his neck, lazily.

"Mmm," she murmured at last. He open one eye and raised an eyebrow sardnically, waiting for her to continue. A small smile graced her featured. "I'm gonna have more bruises," she mused, sounding strangely proud of the fact. He rumbled a wordless purr at her, approving, before lifting her from the wall and moving toward the living room. She yelped, her legs suddenly scrabbling on his hips to hold herself up. He was still nestled inside her as he walked, and the friction had him hardening again. She moaned at the feel of him lengthening inside her even as he strode with her down the hall. He relished the sensation of her wriggling against him before dumping her unceremoniously on the couch and watching, fascinated, as her breasts bounced when she hit the cushions.

"Mmph," she uttered, breathless with even that slight impact. His eyes darkened at this reminder of her fragility, but she opened her arms and said plaintively, "Don't let me go," and he found himself sinking onto the couch beside her, his considerable bulk pinning her to the back of the couch.

"Wasn't planning on it, frail," he purred, trying to inject something of a threat in his tone. _You're so fucking mine the only way you're etting out of this is if I kill you._

She only smiled though, as though his warning words had contented her.

He eyed her critically, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes, the swollen, parted lips. He realized suddenly that she probably hadn't slept at all the night before, and now—having just exerted consideraby more energy than usual—she was exhausted.

It had been entirely worth it, though—at least by his way of thinking. The look in her eyes had been so similar to those of all the people who'd begged for their lives, but _so much sweeter,_ because while he might be a professional, _anyone_ could kill.

Only _he_ had been able to give her what she wanted.

What she _needed_.

He eyed the bruises from last night on her throat, the shallow furrows on her soft stomach. Her shoulders were bruised and a line of purple and green splotched the sides of her ribcage and her back; in places it looked like the skin had been burnt or rubbed raw—he realized after a moment it was from the force of his tearing off her bra the night before. The fabric had been thick and elastic; it wasn't the kind easily given to tearing.

There were fresher, bloodier scratchmarks on her pale flesh that even at his gentlest he hadn't been able to prevent. If he wanted her to last long enough to play out all the fantasies he'd developed in the last few days, he'd have to be careful. Let her rest in between those righteously-deserved fuckings.

"This?" he growled softly, almost threateningly, tracing the line of angry red over the flesh at her hips. He couldn't think of what it might be from, though he guessed it had happened the night before.

"I think—" she hesitated, uncertain of his reaction. "I think it's from the drawstring in my sweatpants."

He glared at the red mark, finding it personally offensive. The scent of blood was still in the air and he slipped one hand between her legs, watching her flinch, then withdrawing his fingers to find blood on them. His jaw clenched as he stared at his fingertips, a nerve twitching in one cheek. He should have known that sex with him, even at his gentlest—and he had been far from gentle—would be akin to battery for her. No wonder she was exhausted.

Her hands snaked up to his face, a silent plea that he look at her. He did.

"Don't be mad," she murmured, caressing the fine, short fur on his jaw. "Don't be."

He didn't know if that was supposed to be reassuring or not. On one hand, he couldn't deny that the sight of her blood, accidentally spilled by his actions, frustrated him. Frustration invariably, by extension, enraged him. On the other hand—why should it bother him at all? He was used to women bleeding and weeping under him. Usually, it filled him with a kind of malicious gloating. Instead, he was just glad he'd had the presence of mind to use his knuckle and the side of his finger between Octber's thighs. The thought of what he might've done, without thinking, to her delicate sex was actually enough to make him shudder with barely-suppressed fury—and something else. He hated that it _mattered—_he'd cut up women there before. Why should it be any different with her?

The conflict jarred his senses.

He _hated _her. Hated her fragility. Hated what he could do to her without even trying. She was pathetic.

He also wanted more of her.

She kissed his jaw tenderly and he felt just a twinge of the tension drain out of him.

Her smile was sleepy. "You're so warm," she murmured, huddling against him. He realized suddenly that she should have more blankets—she got cold easily, while he was practically a furnace due to his high metabolism. He leaned over her, forming a kind of tent for her between his body and the couch, enjoying the sensation of pinning all those plush curves. "I feel like I've just been hit by a truck," she continued drowsily.

"Don't you ever shut up?" he growled—but then he tucked her head onto his upper arm like a pillow.

"A good truck," she added almost urgently, dropping a kiss on his upper arm.

"Shut up," he repeated warningly, using two fingers to gently press her eyelids closed.

She obliged, a faint smile on her lips, as he worked through the wet tangles in her hair.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: This one's going at the beginning AND the end of the chapter in the hopes that people read it. ;) **

I have no idea how I did in this chapter (which is pretty much just entirely sex). I'm going to ask that **for this chapter,** **critical input should be related mainly to style and technical feedback**, since—well—it's a fantasy and therefore, some people are bound to be disappointed.

**Please note the Rating & Reasoning at the top of the page: DARK SEX. I've read darker, actually, but I wanted to make sure everyone was prepared.**

While writing this one of the main things I wanted to do (along with, of course, to titillate and excite you, dear readers) was to keep it "real" (or something close). Even at his gentlest/kindest/fluffiest…we're talking about a man whose claws shred steel-bodied cars without effort. I can't imagine him ever "fingering" a girl in the typical method without doing some serious damage. As much as I'd love to have him in my bed, I never want one of those fucking claws inside me, thanks.

He's also spent a lot more time in the last century learning all the different way to kill people with his hands than he has spent time learning the art of "tender touching." You take on a man like this, you better be expecting to look like you just got in a fucking trainwreck.

And he's a big fuckin' guy. Size aside, a guy that brutal can cause serious medical damage to a girl (and while we're never clear on the topic, October may be virginal as well). There are plenty of women out there who have to get surgery done to get rid of vaginal and cervical scarring (which will be mentioned later in the story as well) due to too much of this rough treatment.

**That said, thank you all again for taking time to read the A/N, and again: I appreciate any stylistic/technical criticism, or general support/encouragement.**

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	11. Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

The next few days passed in a vibrant blur for Victor Creed. His hunting had suddenly become relegated to stalking her around the apartment, cutting off her clothes, breathing in the scent of her arousal and fear. He toyed with taking her between the two extremes, enjoying the confusion in her eyes as the emotions warred for dominance in her.

Jesus, it was enough to make him hard all over again. He had _such control. _He could make her cry if he wanted. He could make her scream. He could make her beg. He could fuck her till he made her thighs bleed, if he wanted.

He tried his damnedest not to.

And when those thoughts disturbed him too greatly, he justified it by telling himself that if he was too rough with her, she wouldn't last as long as he wanted.

He only visited McQuay one time during those days. He knew he was procrastinating in his mission—something he'd never done before—but he couldn't understand why. He knew he didn't want his time with her to end, but he also knew there was no reason why it had to. He could take her to his penthouse suite at the end—_if_ he still wanted to.

Sure, now she protested at the thought of leaving her shitty little apartment, but once he got her there—he imagined how wide her big, dark eyes would get when she saw the bath that had been specifically designed to fit his large body, with room to spare. He thought about soaping her up in that tub, or pounding into her in the middle of his huge bed, so hard that the mattress bowed. He'd make her ass hit the fucking _floor._ He thought of her sprawled, lazy-limbed and trembling, on his black silk sheets. Waiting for him, afraid and wanting him all at once.

Thursday rolled around. McQuay wanted to see October again. When Victor leaned against the wall, his hand on his belt buckle, and asked her if she still wanted to go, she'd bit her lips and stared at him with obvious desire smoldering in her eyes, in the air around them. Reluctantly, she said yes, she would go, and he told her she should start getting ready now, as he planned on it taking the two of them a long time.

He watched her put on her make-up first this time, watched her brush her hair and pin it back. It made him feel lazy and languid, like a contented cat. When she began to get changed, he helped her, though they had to take a break in the middle because he kept running his hot, dry hands over the smooth expanse of her back and letting his claws linger at her sides. He took her in front of the bedroom mirror, growling and rubbing his jaw against the tender skin of her throat, licking and sucking and biting her shoulderblades, making her shudder at the texture of his facial hair as his hands kneaded her breasts through the delicate fabric of her bra, then tugged the cups down so that her breasts spilled free. He braced her on the front of dresser, bending her over just a little bit and crouching so he could angle into her from behind. Within seconds he was ramming into her so hard that things fell off the dresser. A few kitschy little figurines broke when they hit the floor. She didn't even notice, though: his predator's eyes pierced her gaze in the mirror as he moved his fanged mouth over her shoulder, and she was watching their reflection with a strained, needy look in her eyes.

"Please," she hiccupped when he slammed into her. Her voice was a desperate, strangled cry. "Oh—_please—"_

He grunted, his hands braced on her hips as he hoisted her higher so he could stand fully. The new angle nearly had her pressed against the mirror. He clamped his teeth on her neck, fastening them over the vein in her throat and tugging on the flesh there in an act of animal dominance. She choked and cried out as his hands moved to span her pretty ribs, running up and down the tender skin of her torso, cupping just under her breasts. When he thrust into her, her nipples brushed the cool glass and her pleas had melted into wordless, husky gasps. He slid a hand down in front of her, kneading between her legs as her fingers clutched the dresser for support.

When she came, arching so wildly that her breasts pressed against the cold glass, her body shuddered for almost a minute. He continued thrusting into her till she was limp, sprawled across the dresser, his dog tags dangling onto her bare back when he finally roared his release.

He carried her out of the room so she wouldn't step on the broken glass and set her down. When she stumbled, he barked a sharp, self-satisfied laugh.

She blushed at the sound and he grinned ferally, his eyes on her as he leaned against the doorway and watched her finish getting ready. She was shaky and trembling, and he thought it was absolutely _delicious. _With trembling hands she knotted heavy ropes of fake pearls and silver chains across her throat, trying—futiley—to cover some of his marks.

"It looks like I've been beaten," she murmured to herself, staring in the bathroom mirror with a bemused look on her face. "I don't even notice them till afterward."

His ears picked up the words and he half-grinned. He knew what she meant: that in the moment, the bruising grip of his hands on her hips—tighter than they should be—or the faint scrape of his talons just felt _good._ She liked it—he could tell by the way she shivered when he did it. He found that judicious use of his claws could be enough to arouse her and keep her on the edge for hours. When they skated over her sides, it prickled, tickling her soft skin. It was a lucky thing that his claws were clean and smooth and sharp, as were his teeth, and the puncturing of her flesh rarely caused actual pain—at least not in the moment. It wasn't till later, with cooling flesh, that they both realized the sheer sharpness of his nails had left fine red welts on her skin, or that his hands had bruised her. When they were both high on adrenaline and the feel of each other, sometimes she didn't notice when he drew blood.

He always noticed. He could smell it, and taste it. It made him shudder.

He made no excuses. He was an animal, and he knew it.

She caught sight of his face—looking smug and extremely satisfied—in the mirror and flushed, and it turned him on again. He thought about taking her again up against the door before they left, but he was fairly certain he'd marked her up enough for McQuay's benefit. For some reason, he wasn't feeling brutish enough to leave her hurting throughout dinner.

When they came into the diner, she was laughing, and even the series of chains and pearls knotted at her throat couldn't hide the twin fang-scrapes on the tops of both shoulders and one breast. McQuay's face was utterly priceless. Victor wouldn't lie: he positively _relished_ the little man's discomfort and frustration, especially when coupled with the fact that—as pitiful as he was—he had still been a competitor for sweet October's affections.

_Sweet._ She'd said she hated the word, but when he told her how sweet she tasted—her skin, the space between her breasts, the flavor of her blood and all the little sounds she made, her hot little pussy—well, she didn't seem to mind when _he_ said it. In fact, it only served to make her whimper and writhe and blush.

The thought filled him with a feral sort of satisfaction, and he bared his teeth at McQuay in a smug grin.

She was careful, all night, trying to balance a tightrope between making sure McQuay knew she was not interested in dating him, and trying to keep him from being hurt.

Creed had no such compunctions. He reached out throughout the meal, touching her arm, her thigh, braceleting her wrist, tucking back stray curls with lengthened claws. When she got up once to use the restroom, he grinned at McQuay mockingly.

"I told October once that in a cock fight between you and I, I would definitely win," he jeered quietly. "I'm pretty sure, in this particular case, that my cock has definitely won the contest."

"Are you going to hurt her?" McQuay asked, his voice tight and tense.

Creed's smirk widened. "Not any more than she likes," he purred. Then: "Unless, of course, you fuck up. She may be the sweetest bit of pussy I've ever had, but I'm not gonna give 'er any freebies on _your _account. I can have any woman I want at any time I want them and leave 'em for dead—without having to worry about banging them up. Not," he added leeringly, "that I haven't done more than my share of banging the Morgan frail."

It was a lie. At least, it was a half-lie. He wasn't wasting a pretty piece like October Morgan on this flaccid little boy's mistakes. He had decided, in that moment, that if McQuay fucked up, it would be the little man's life on the line—not October's.

He wanted to keep her hot, tight little body all for himself.

The silver-eyed mutant's upper lip curled back in a sneer. "I don't even understand how an innocent like Toby could bear to touch an animal like you."

Victor's temper spiked, but he held it in check—barely. With a clench-jawed smile, he said, "It must be my huge…muscles."

McQuay's face folded in an expression of disgust. Bending forward, he hissed, "She must have fucked you out of _fear."_

Creed tilted back in his chair, baring his fangs. "There may have been some fear involved," he conceded mockingly.

"She fucked you because you _made _her!"

"Um, actually, I fucked him because I wanted to."

Both men turned to look at her. Creed was furious with himself—he'd been so caught up in tearing the little man's inflated ego down to bite-sized that he had not even noticed October's approach. McQuay had the grace to look abashed, if a little sick as well.

Still, she moved forward, resting her hands lightly on Creed's shoulders. Even so, her chin just reached the top of his head. Gently, she continued: "He's smart as hell, and witty. He has me figured out, which…most people don't. He makes me laugh—"

Victor thought this was not too much of a challenge. Under the right circumstances, she could find mirth in a loaf of bread.

"—and I like to listen to him."

She sat down primly and changed the topic to something inane, rambling on by herself when neither McQuay nore Creed contributed to the conversation. The next fifteen minutes seemed to drag on and finally she gave up, sitting with her hands forlornly in her lap while McQuay glared at anything that moved and Creed smirked at him goadingly.

To be honest, Creed was a little disappointed in how anticlimactic it all seemed. He'd been hoping the little bastard would try to pull a stunt like before, see if he could make his head explode.

It might be fun.

Ah well. There was always next Thursday, and Creed sure as hell planned on hanging around till then.

It was obvious that October was relieved when the check finally came. She almost ran out the door when dinner was over. Being out in the summery evening air seemed to revive her, and as they were heading home, she was nearly giddy with the prospect of the next morning's court proceedings.

"It would be good to meet Bobby, finally," she said. "Are you—"

"Why don't you yell?" he interupted her, his voice tight.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"When that jackass McQuay is being a little bitch. When he gets in your face. This is the second time he's insulted you, and you don't _do _anything." His lip curled in confusion and disgust. "Are you that much of a pushover?"

She looked like she'd been slapped, but then her face grew tight and controlled. When she flashed a smile at him, it was sharp. For a moment, he was almost under the impression that she had her own set of fangs.

"I don't _yell,_ Mr Creed. It's not my style. Yelling makes you look stupid and weak. I maintain my composure because it puts me in the position of power." Again, a toothy smile. "Then, if I'm really mad, I cut their legs right out from under them."

He paused in his stride, one eyebrow raised as he stared down at her. She stopped as well, turning to look up at him expectantly—challengingly. He barked a sharp shout of laughter—she was _good_. She might be able to drop an opponent with one of her clever elbows in his throat, but the body language and posturing involved in physically defying and challenging a man would only appear laughable. Confidence was everything in a battle, and even undeserved arrogance often gave a competitor the edge. She knew what she looked like: soft curves, kitten-hands, fragile bones, brassy hair. No aspect of her appearance was intimidating.

So, he realized with a grin, she used her composure and her disdain to make the enemy feel weak. Vulnerable. Foolish. And when he attacked in a blind rage—physically or verbally—he would inevitably leave an opening, and she'd slip in.

_Way to play to your strengths, sugar. _

"Do you want to go alone?" he asked suddenly, resuming his stride. His voice was low in the darkness.

She blinked, nearly tumbling over her red heels as she turned to follow him. She was wearing a sexy little number in fake scarlet satin, and it turned him on. She was all bruises and scrapes, white pearls and chains knotted at her throat, a dress like slick shiny blood. He had already decided he would buy her a hundred more like it so he could tear each of them off her with his teeth.

At her surprised stumble, he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, hoisting her upright.

"Do you mean to the Roman case?"

He shot her a raised-eyebrow glance, as though she were stupid. "Well, yeah. Where else are you gonna go?"

"Could I?" she breathed, sounding intoxicated by the idea.

His jaw twitched. For some reason, her response irritated him. "I asked, didn't I?" Then: "If you try to run—"

She laughed. "I don't run from things, Mr Creed. If I'm running from you, it'll only be when I want you to catch me."

He growled at the sensual images her words conjured up.

She hesitated, her eyes dark on his. He suddenly became conscious of the fact that she was taking three strides for every one of his. When her heel fell into a crevice in the sidewalk and she cursed, he swung her up easily into his arms, cradling her like child...except, in the past, when he had carried kids, it usually involved half-draging them by a leg or an arm. It was never this careful. She was still and surprised, and then one of her elegant arms crept tentatively around his neck.

"I would love to be able to go out sometimes—to the store or to get breakfast or to the park or just for a walk. By myself, I mean," she added. Her voice was careful and slow, picking over her words. He recognized that it was just as much to avoid hurting him—as if such a thing were possible!—as it was to try to prevent his anger. "But—" She paused, looking thoughtful, her lips twitching in an uncertain half-smile. "But I like having you around, too," she said finally, her fingers gently stroking the short, soft hair at the base of his skull. "I would like to have the freedom to go places on my own, if I want, but I think I'd like you to come tomorrow. If you're interested."

He couldn't care less about court cases and kids. But he was interested in seeing how the Roman brat interacted with October, and what history was between her and this Mendohls character.

He had her again that night, almost as soon as they got in the door. He caught her on her way to the shower, claws snagging her zipper. He tore the dress down the back, letting it fall from her chest, scooping his hands around to fill them with her breasts. He knocked the photos and files from the table again, spilling her out on it, and denuded her in less than a second with sharp, skilled talons. When she was completed naked, he scraped his mouth over her, still fully clothed, and slid into her with his massive black coat forming a tent around them. In four solid strokes, the legs of the table buckled, and he rolled at the last minute to shelter her from the worst of the fall. The scent of blood hit the air and he wondered if he'd cut her or clipped her on the table.

October, on the other hand, had broken into hysterical laughter, covering him in joyful, playful kisses as she urged him out of his clothes, kneeling between the hard, hairy muscles of his thighs and kissing him in places he had never expected a woman to put her mouth—not willingly, not with him. Her hands slid over his legs, revelling in the feel of him, moaning a little just at the pleasure of touching him. He thought her silken legs and eager hands against him felt—_unbelievable_, a tale told by Dukes and Wilson that he'd never given credit to before. The contrast of her smooth soft skin and his lightly-furred muscles gliding against each other nearly had his bones buckling. He pulled her onto his lap amidst the broken pieces of wood and torn red satin scraps, and realized that in the brief moments before the table broke, he'd hurt her without meaning to—a thin line of blood tickled down her leg.

His jaw clenched furiously and she'd stroked his cheek with gentle hands—again: _Don't be upset_—but it was almost enough to stop him in his tracks.

_You have to be careful, or she won't last for as long as you wanna play._

But she was urging him, teasing and whispering how much she wanted him inside her again, and he growled at her low in his throat. His chest rumbled against hers. With giant hands almost braceleting her thighs, he slid her legs over his hips and let her ease onto him, letting her take the length of him at her leisure and preference.

She began rocking against him, her expression one of concentrated abandon as she took in the sight of his massive chest, the enormous muscles in his arms. Her fingertips coasted over his skin and her breasts bounced with every movement.

"What a sweet thing you are," he purred, running his tongue suggestively over his incisors and eyeing her breasts as they swayed over him.

He watched her blush, then her brows furrow. Her mouth fell open just a bit before she caught her plush lower lip in her teeth desperately, trying and failing to hold back a whimpering moan as she slid over the length of him. He stroked her calves, feeling the muscles in them tighten as she ground against him.

For the first time in his very long life, Victor Creed let someone else be in control.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part III: Sexual tension and plot-clues. Toby goes to court as an advocate and paralegal for **_**Roman v. Roman,**_** where Vic gets to see his kitten's claws—and some insight into how the rest of the world views the once-famous October Morgan. Creed tells a story about himself and Jimmy. Mild, implied sexiness.**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part IV: Minor fluff, in which Creed gets October a prezzie. Aw. Also, more SMUT. And then a cliffhanger…**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part I: October witnesses murder at Creed's hands. October gets in trouble for being stupid and impulsive. Creed reveals a little vulnerability [insert Sentimental Hogwash warning here]. Creed goes on a fieldtrip to see an old friend (and by friend, I mean someone he hates) and we discover he's been stealing things from October…but it's okay—and hopefully amusing.**


	12. Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part III**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**A/N: This chapter is kind of mediocre, but I really wanted to set the tone of Vic's memories with Logan. As always, let me know if something doesn't work for you. Just be gentle and offer some constructive advic and I'll see what I can do. :D**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He watched her get dressed in the morning—this time, without touching her. She was, in some ways, even more enticing in her pretty royal-blue suit with the cream pinstripe, and her hair scooped back and pinned up. Very professional.

He wanted to mess her up something fierce.

He restrained himself. Time was tight and again he told himself that he wasn't careful, he'd break her before he was ready to. He eyed the healing marks on her stomach, still pink and fresh from where he'd raked his claws over her the other night when she'd crept into his bed. The sight of them frustrated him, pissed him off: they'd scar, he was sure. Four thin white lines across her belly for the rest of her life. The accidental marking of her flesh glared at him like a warning:

_Slow down if you want to play longer._

Hell, he could slice his claws through steel-bodied cars with a light-hearted drag of his hand. For the last century, since Jimmy had hit thirteen and developed his own re-gen factor, Victor Creed had only used his hands as weapons: bringing down moose. Bringing down men. Bringing down various vehicles of enemy transport with just his bare fists and claws. Of course, he reasoned, it would take a while before he could figure out the right amount of pressure to _not _mark up her fragile skin.

He was learning, though. He had to. Every once in a while—like at the sight of the healing pink cuts on her stomach—her mortality would surge to the forefront of his mind.

Still, he was glad she was patient. And glad that in a lot of ways, his roughness actually appealed to her. He was amazed at it, sometimes, though he swallowed it down.

She seemed nervous, too, this morning—edgy—and not in the good, entirely-focused-on-him way. She was distracted, fluttery. He could practically taste the heaviness of her anxiety, like the kind of summer humidity that lays your skin slick even when the weather is cool.

Before they left, she stopped by the window, where her plants were. With one gentle, cupped hand, she lifted the weighty, drooping head of a pink lily. "The Stargazers are dying," she murmured distractedly, cradling the blossom in her hand. Its movement caused a ghost of heavy scent to waft out into the room. When she moved away, a petal floated down to the floor, followed by two more. Creed tilted his head at the sight.

Damn flowers. They'd have to be cleaned up later.

They walked to the courthouse. He couldn't believe how much walking she did in those scrappy little heels of hers and thought that when he had her on his own, he would make sure she was escorted everywhere in cars that most people never saw in their lifetimes.

Margo had reserved them a seat behind Bobby Roman. In some ways, October was playing the part of his parents—or the part his parents _should have been playing,_ in her opinion. Anxiety rolled off her in waves, and he wondered where it was coming from and what had caused it. When the boy walked in, Creed watched him like a hawk, waiting for the moment when the kid saw Toby.

He looked about sixteen, slenderly muscled, with thick blue-black hair and haunted eyes. His fine-boned face reminded Creed of that LeBeau character from a few decades back, and he thought, _This kid is gonna get all the ladies when he grows up._ To all appearances, he looked normal, but when October craned her delicate neck around to look for him and the boy caught sight of her face, Victor could feel the whole room break out in an infrasonic hum.

Catching a glimpse of Margo, October rose, her eyes falling on the redhead's companion, and her strained face melted into a warm smile. She moved forward from their row, one hand extended to shake his hand.

The kid looked like he'd seen an angel. His face had crumbled into an expression of awe—which Toby conveniently did not seem to notice—and he took her hand almost reverantly. When he did, a sharp blue electrical charge sprung between them with a single bell-like tone, and October laughed, surprised, as the boy looked embarrassed and tried to tug his hand away.

Instead, Toby clasped her other hand over their joined palms and said smilingly, "You must be Robert Roman. Margo may have mentioned me. My name is—"

"October Morgan," the boy finished for her. His voice was almost a whisper. "You're a goddess in some circles, you know."

She laughed, as though he'd been joking, and delicately moved to take his elbow as they walked to his seat. She and Margo began re-prepping him for what to expect from Mendohls, the jury, the judge. At one point, Creed thought the room was going to fall apart from the strength of the boy's hum, something that must have been below the normal human range of hearing, because no-one else seemed to notice.

When the boy began talking about his mutation, his face lit up. He began to make motions as if plucking things from the air, drawing and sliding his hands across the space in front of him, and a low, sweet melody lit up the area around him. Creed could see the molecules in the air lighting up as they vibrated from the Roman kid's touch.

Toby's face grew wistful. "It's beautiful," she murmured, reaching out one frail hand to touch the shimmering little wave of sound.

Bobby blushed. "I call that one _October."_

From behind him, Creed growled almost involuntarily.

Smiling drily, Toby introduced the two mutants to each other—a formality, since Creed didn't really care. Somewhere in the conversation, a mixture of laughter and serious discussion about the impending trial—all of it saturated by Bobby Roman's hero-worship and Toby's blindness to it—the Roman parents entered, ushered in by Frederick Mendohls. Creed watched as Mendohls' eyes fell on October and he visibly started, staring at the curvy, brassy-haired advocate. His brows furrowed and a look of slow panic and confusion set in.

The man looked overwhelmingly average. He had black hair, thinning on top, not a strand out of place—a nose like a little blob of dough and round glasses perched on it. He was only a few inches taller than October, and round but not obese. There was nothing unique about his physical appearance—except how he stared at Toby.

It was actually a look that Creed was familiar with. The curled lip said that Mendohls _wanted_ to hold opponent in contempt, but there was fear and frustration and pitiful, helpless anger—a bizarre mixture of bitter jealousy and hatred and grudging respect—in his eyes.

Mendohls clearly knew he was in the presence of a wholly superior adversary, and he wanted to make her suffer for it. His unguarded expression raised Creed's hackles and Victor briefly debated ending this stupid trial before it began. Preferably with a spray of hot blood and lots of screaming.

Mendohls' eyes travelled over Margo and Bobby, back to October, and finally rested on Victor. His eyes widened when he saw the massive mutant, and though he clearly didn't know who Creed was, he obviously recognized that he was in the presence of a predator, one who could do a lot more physical damage than tiny Toby. His eyes darted back and forth worriedly from October to Creed, and the feral mutant purred under his breath, "Helloooooo, Freddie."

Toby's head snapped up as though on a spring, and she caught the FoH lawyer staring at her with more than a little apprehension. Her own anxiety doubled and re-doubled in the three seconds that they held eye-contact, but Creed was proud to see that Mendohls looked away first, turning to a woman who was presumably Mrs Roman and gallantly gesturing her to a chair.

"What've you done, little girl," Creed murmured to the woman at his side, "that has put such a knot in Mendohls' shorts?"

Toby looked up at him. Her face was riddled with apprehension and she opened her mouth to say something when Victor flicked his glance to the right and said, "Later. He's coming over."

He was amazed at how quickly her face shuttered in and became a mask of regal indifference and elegant poise.

"Ms Morgan, what a delight to see you."

Mendohls' voice was slick and oily-sounding. October rose with a charming smile and stretched out one hand. "And by 'delight,' I assume you mean 'anything but,'" she said pleasantly.

Mendohls' smile hardened, but he took her hand and shook it once, firmly and politely. "I simply mean we haven't seen a lot of you in the courtroom very often in the last few years."

"I try not to play with the Friends of Humanity anymore," she said. Her voice was clipped and dry, her wide smile somehow threatening. "They tend to take my things."

Victor watched her and was fascinated.

And turned on.

Her smile was like a shark's smile, every tooth showing, and her tone was entirely polite and yet somehow wholly belittling. It was the same smile he'd seen on her face the night before, the same regal, mocking quality in the voice. It clearly stated: _I think you are the most laughably idiotic creature to ever crawl this planet. However, because I am a queen among women, I will treat you with great courtesy. _

Mendohls laughed condescendingly, but Creed could tell his nerves were wound tight. Hell, he could smell it in the man'sgreasy scent. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Strange. I am entirely certain that you do." Both her smile and her eyes widened and narrowed like a cat's. For a second, Creed felt a rush of heat at her predator's grin.

Mendohls' voice was slimy and ingratiating. "If you're referring to our little disagreement a few years back, Ms Morgan, let bygones be bygones. I suggest that _you_ not _misplace_ your—ah, _things_—in the future. Perhaps you should check the lost-and-found? Oh wait—that's where you spend most of your days now, isn't it?"

She was utterly unperturbed, her smile actually widening in the face of something that was obviously a coded insult. She was—unbelievably enough—enjoying this.

_Enjoying putting him in his place._

Creed wanted to screw her silly right then and there. She was cold, and brutal—vicious even, under this sexy little veneer of civilization. She could hold her own. He felt another surge of smug satisfaction. Victor Creed sure as hell hadn't taken up with a fragile woman.

"As absolutely _adorable_ as it is to listen to your words of…" she paused delicately, "…wisdom, I'm afraid I prefer focusing my attention on more stimulating conversation right now." She turned to the Reuse woman. "You were talking about the shoes you bought yesterday, Margo?"

Mendohls blustered, but then his eyes zeroed in on October's narrow wrist and he pushed his way further into the conversation anyway, despite the clear dismissal. "Where's your bracelet?" he demanded, his smile slick.

"It got broken," she returned mildly.

"Moving on so soon, Miss Morgan?" Somehow, he was insulting her. Creed couldn't figure out how, but he understood the condescending, vicious tone.

"Some of us grow and change, Mr Mendohls. I'm sure that even without personal experience, you've at least heard of these concepts." The barb bit home. "Best of luck in your argument," October added mildly, eyes wide and mocking.

She turned from the laweyer, clearly dismissing him—_again—_and rifling through the files that Margo silently handed her. Mendohls was enraged at being so casually disregarded.

"We _will_ win this case, Morgan," he spat,clearly flustered.

October glanced back over her shoulder blankly, a distracted smile on her face. "Oh," she murmured with a polite, disinterested expression. "How cute."

The man was nearly white-knuckled in his anger. It made Creed grin and he leaned forward a little, forearms rest on his knees so he could look up at Mendohls with a tigerish grin. The man went pale, not only his cheeks but his lips and throat as well, and turned to move back toward the Roman family. Dad stared straight ahead, tight-jawed and lost-looking, while Mom alternated between tearful sniffles and nasty glares at October and the redhead. It made Victor sneer.

His frail could take on all three of them with her hands tied behind her back.

Actually, the thought of her hands tied behind her back brought on a whole slew of interesting images. She moved back to her seat beside him and he circled her wrist with one hand possessively, intending to make some smart-ass comment about ropes for later.

But then she lifted her head when he touched her, meeting his eyes, and he actually flinched at the expression there. He'd seen that bone-tired look in the eyes of men at war. For a second, she looked empty and weary and haunted.

He and Jimmy had coined a term sometime after World War II, when they'd been in enough battles to identify the men who probably weren't gonna make it home. He'd heard it called shell-shock, PTSD, whatever.

_She's got ghost-eyes,_ Jimmy would have said.

Creed hadn't expected to see that look here, on this girl's face. Maybe, a few weeks ago, if he'd thought about it he would have recognized it as a likely possibility, eventually, after he executed his intentions of brutal rape and torture. That is, if she were still alive at the end of it. But he hadn't actually pictured it, really, and now—

"Your bracelet?" Bobby leaned over the back of his seat to ask October, clearly confused by Mendohl's parting shot.

Creed watched, disturbed and fascinated, when the battle-weary look slid off her face like magic and she turned a bright smile toward the Roman kid. For fuck's sake, bu the woman was good at hiding it.

"It was something I got for the four of us—one for each of my sisters and one for me—a few Christmases back," she said mildly. "Just a basic charm bracelet. They had letters that spelled out _sister_son them. I wore it pretty religiously for a while, but it got broken a few days back."

The boy looked somehow personally wounded and nodded, reaching back to gently rub October's shoulder as if to offer comfort.

Creed stifled a growl, both at the touch and at the confusion of what he'd just witnessed. He tried to mollify himself with the knowledge that he would get his answers from October later.

If she was going to be his, then dammit, he wanted to know _everything. _Every fuckin' part.

Even if he had to torture it out of her.

The court proceedings were actually interesting. Creed thought part of it might just be that he could hear October's whispered words to Roman and Reuse, even when no-one else could. He liked to watch her slim hands move over the pages, pluck at different files. He liked the casual savagery of her tone when she murmured a suggestion to Margo, the way she smiled like a shark when she caught Mendohls' gaze. The proceedings ran smoothly, and he was actually surprised to see how easily Margo garnered the jury's favor and sympathy. Every time Mendohls made a remark, Margo—often with October's aid—had something to combat it, something that made Mendohls look like a fool. He held his own while he was addressing the jury alone, but the moment Margo rose, any ground he might have gained was immediately lost.

The sight and smell of October next to him was driving Creed mad. As much as he'd enjoyed his "unlimited privileges" over the years, that wasn't to say that he hadn't learned a good deal of restraint in his time at war. He was using every bit of it now, because she was smelling musky and he could almost taste the adrenaline running through her system. She was twitching with excitement: her hands knotting in her lap, her calves so tense that her knees were bouncing at an unfathomable speed even as she sat and gave the appearance of composure. She was exuding moist heat and her eyes were just _gleaming_ with eagerness for a conflict.

In this courtroom, Toby was a tough little bitch just _spoiling_ for a fight, and Creed himself was nearly shuddering with anticipation at the sight and smell and sound of her.

When the court recessed for the day, Margo was bouyant.

"That was fuc—fantastic!" she gushed, tripping over her words. "We have the jury eating out of our hands."

October smiled, looking amused, and winked at Bobby. "Don't take anything for granted, Margo. Especially not so early in the game. Mendohls' next move is going to be to try to incite fear. He has a 'mutant social expert' lined up for tomorrow—he's going to talk about the apparent dangers of Bobby's gift."

Margo made a face, saying, "You know me better than that, 'Tober," and the Roman kid said, "I don't do anything wrong! What could I possibly do—lullaby someone to sleep?"

October grinned, a little savagely, almost gleeful. It was the kind of look that made Creed want to throw her over his shoulder and haul ass back to the privacy of her annoyingly tiny apartment.

"I have a feeling he's going to talk about using infra- and ultrasonic sound waves being used to damage property or invade things you aren't supposed to invade," Toby said. "Possibly the potential of using your ability to incapacitate humans. There's a girl a couple states over, I heard, who can scream at a pitch that makes peoples' ears bleed."

Creed was impressed by how easily she could read into the doughy little man's strategy, while Margo immediately dove into conversations on law and strategy.

As she drew Toby's attention away, Bobby Roman turned his gaze to Creed. Victor raised his eyebrows sneeringly as the kid struggled with an aloof, tough-guy expression.

"You her boyfriend, or something like that?" Bobby asked, trying to sound like some sort of macho-man, alpha-male.

Creed grinned, vaguely amused, and pulled back his lips enough to show his fangs. If he couldn't fuck Toby yet, he might as well take his entertainment from other sources. "Something like that," he jeered.

The boy looked startled at the sight of Victor's long incisors, but shrugged quickly enough. "You're a lucky guy, then. I know men—"

"Boys," Creed corrected smoothly.

The Roman kid glared at him. "—who would give up their right arm for a chance to even _meet_ her."

"You one of 'em?" Creed asked mildly, entertained by this half-pint teenager. "'Cause we can arrange that. You've met my frail; I think you owe me a limb."

The kid's face flushed. "Do you even have a clue what an amazing woman she is?" he blustered.

Victor smirked. "I might have some idea."

Bobby glowered. "I can see you don't," he said, frustrated. In some ways, his voice still sounded like a little boy's. "She's done more for kids in general—and especially kids like me—than anyone else in the world."

Creed lifted a brow. "That's an awfully big claim."

"It's true!" the boy said passionately. "She used to be famous for the work she did! She saved _lives_! And what did she get for it?"

The feline mutant grinned. For fuck's sake, it was too easy, and too much fun. "A shit-ton of pimply-faced fanboys?"

The kid's face locked down, darkening to an almost purple flush of rage.

"_Pain,"_ the kid snapped. "She got _pain_ for it. Loss and heartache. And for some reason, she's still here, helping out." A pause, and a hint of that awe again. "Helping _me."_ His eyes swivelled back to Victor's. "She's a _hero."_

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He couldn't wait to take her away from here.

It was his first thought when he woke up in the morning, and she was tucked tightly against his side. She usually got cold easily, but when he was in the bed, she might as well have been hugging a furnace. In her sleep, she'd kicked most of the blankets off, and he could clearly see her form outlined in the sheet.

He couldn't wait to take her away and fuck her till she begged for mercy. Then tease her till she begged for mercy.

Then fuck her again.

Yeah. He couldn't wait to take her back with him. She'd be the prettiest damn thing in his penthouse. Lovely and soft, waiting for him. Utterly under his power, all the time.

God, he was fucking _drowning_ in her.

As much as he couldn't wait to take her away, at the same time, there was something quaint and pleasing about his days here. She'd pop in movies and make him watch or, after another trip to the grocery store, spoon ice cream into his mouth straight from her bowl. He disliked dairy—he'd grown to prefer beer and whiskey and meat over the course of his existance, things that tasted hard or bitter or sharp or bloody—but it amused him to let her offer him food. To watch as she carefully tried to avoid his incisors. Let her press her thumb to his lip to catch a melted drip.

There was nothing, he began to realize, that she wasn't eager to share with him, and it cut him open in its tenderness—which aggravated him. Sometimes, he downright _hated _it. He could never figure out when the other shoe was going to drop, when she was going to laugh in his face or try to fight him or refuse him or turn him away. When she was going to decide she'd had enough, or exploit him.

Then he'd just have to go back to the old stand-by, and take what he wanted before killling her.

He was frightening, he knew, and dangerous, and she wasn't oblivious to it. After all, he could smell it from her when he was angry, or—in a way that both aroused him and infuriated him—at random moments.

Of course, her fear also seemed intrinsically linked with her attraction to him, and _that_ he liked—it made him feel powerful, and scary, and he liked that. He liked knowing how aware she was of the fact that he could bend her till she broke.

He wouldn't though.

At least, he told himself, not while she was still so interesting and new. It was no surprise that with enough force, he could make her body do whatever he wanted. He could force himself inside her, or rip her from limb to limb—make her skin part like butter under his claws in a pool of blood, if he wanted. But what _amazed_ him—what enthralled and captivated him beyond measure—were all the reactions he could coax from her with the lightest of touches. He could make her buck and convulse just by mock-biting her breast, or stroking one claw down her side. The base of her spine was lit with nerves, and when he scraped his talons lightly over the satin skin there, he found her body jumping and arching against his, her arms reaching for him, every fiber in her body just wordlessly _begging_. The power he found he had, in these ways, was completely unexpected—and utterly intoxicating.

He could get high off the sounds she made, the way she pleaded _for_ him, rather than against him. With others, in the past, he enjoyed making them beg him to stop, to_ please stop—I'll do anything._ But he'd never had someone beg him to continue, with the same desperate tone, to _keep touching, please, whatever you like, please, please,_ and found he could torment her by _not_ touching her. The knowledge that she was aching _for_ him, that he held such an easy power over her, was heady and addicting. Once, he came up behind her in the kitchen and locked his arms around her waist, dipping his head to nip demandingly at the sensitive flesh joining her neck and shoulder. Before he'd so much as opened his mouth, though, a shudder racked her frame and she gasped breathlessly.

"Your whiskers tickle," she'd said accusingly, studiously not looking at him and plunging her hands into the sink of soapy water. But he'd seen—even felt—the flush of heat rise in her throat and face, and could smell the surge of arousal coming off her in waves. Intrigued—and maybe experiencing more than a little savage delight—he swooped in again, rubbing his cheek experimentally against her.

Her legs buckled and he swung her into his arms, splashing suds everywhere and roaring with victorious, incredulous laughter. He was suddenly rushing with adrenaline at the realization of his absolute dominance over her. It was better than making a fresh kill, in some ways.

Many ways, if he was honest.

He steadily ignored the fact that her eager touch and shocking tenderness were also addicting, and that he'd come to enjoy them in his own way. The thoughts had flickered through his mind that in some ways, he was at her mercy just as much as she was at his, but he pushed them away with a growl. Instead, he thought about how she'd look, astride him in a bubble bath in his penthouse. He never used bubble bath—the stuff stank of chemicals and was a frivolity he considered stupid—but the thought of the glistening foam on the pale curves of her breasts, bobbing enticingly in the deep water, made him growl. He wouldn't touch her, he'd decided already—simply sit with his arms stretched on either side of him at the edge of the tub and let her explore. She'd be hesitant at first: light touches, and quiet, closed-mouth kisses to his muscled chest and arms. He would let her do whatever he wanted—as a reward for her own kindness, her generosity. He was slowly coming to realize that, with her, he could afford to be generous in turn. At least, as generous as he wanted to be.

A few nights later, they were lying on the living room floor together. He generally didn't like being so low to ground—he was used to sleeping in tall beds or hammocks or trees, where he could see everything around him. But she'd sprawled lazily there after a session of Roman vs. Roman, popping in a movie and inviting him to join her. He had looked at her like she was ridiculous at first, one eyebrow raised derisively, but then she'd rolled onto her back and opened her arms to him, belly-up, and he'd been drawn to her surrender as well as her invitation. He had moved over her like a cat, crawling, his eyes hooded and threatening, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. When he felt her quiver under him, he'd lunged, snagging a nipple with his teeth through her layers of clothes. He yanked away the neckline of her shirt and bra, then he lapped at her breast with his rough, animal tongue.

Afterward, she'd finger-combed her way through his dark hair and the soft fur lining his jaw, everything in her welcoming and tender.

"Tell me a story," she said, after a moment.

He rumbled against her. "Is that a request?" he purred deep in his chest. She laughed at the feel of it.

"Sorry, Mr Creed. _Please._ Please tell me a story."

He nuzzled her throat and felt her shudder as the rough fur of his face scraped softly against her shoulder and throat. "What will you give me if I do, little frail?"

Her hands cupped the sides of his face and she lifted it, heavy-eyed andincredibly aroused. Softly, she moved her mouth to his, her lips gliding and slanting over him.

"What do you want?" she murmured, her eyes dark.

"Say you're mine."

She went still beneath him and he growled in frustration, lowering his head to rest on her breast. Her heart thudded softly under his ear. She was sad, and a little afraid—probably worried she had angered him. He slid upward just a little, clamping his teeth down on her jugular.

"You know you're mine anyway," he snarled against her. "Why won't you just say it?"

Silence.

He waited. With a low growl, he said grudgingly: "When I first met my little brother, I didn't know he was my little brother."

She looked at him, nonplussed. She had evidently expected him to be furious again—not that he could blame her. He was furious. Kind of. But she _hadn't_ expected him to tell a story at her request, and dammitall to hell if he wasn't gonna keep her on her toes.

"My mom had died when I was born—my dad said I killed her when I came out of her. He hated me for that. At least for a while. Then he just stopped caring about anything. We were poor, him and I, and he did odd-jobs for some of the families nearby. The Howlett home was the sweetest, coziest little cabin you ever saw, and the good Mrs Howlett—" he let the sarcasm drip from his voice, "—liked to watch my father chop wood for their fire while Mr Howlett was out hunting. When I was a little over two, my dad knocked her up, and when I was three, James was born."

He could still remember Jimmy's big dark eyes, and the way they'd looked up at him without judgement.

"He was littler'n me. By a lot. We spent a lot of time growing up together and he was something that was my own; something I could take care of." He shrugged. "I used to want that."

Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck, stroking.

"My father mostly ignored me entirely, and the Howlett bitch thought I was less'n shit. I think she was kind of in love with him, even though my dad couldn't see past my mom's ghost. She hated the fact that I'd been born by the woman he was still all tangled up in, and she was bitter about it. On the other hand, my dad _adored_ Jimmy." The word was laced with disgust. "Couldn't see beyond the blinding light of that skinny little shrimp."

She couldn't see his face, as it was nestled in the crook of her neck, but she could hear something soften in his voice.

"I took care of the runt. He was sick all the time—not a good thing in the Canadian wilderness—and a skinny little piece of shit, too. I read stories to him by the fire, and we'd talk about how when we got older we were gonna discover things no-one else discovered before.

"Then, when I was ten and Jimmy was seven, we were goofin' off and he fell out of a tree. Jimmy was fragile at the time, and I didn't think about it—just kind of threw myself after him to try'n break his fall. There was no way I should have gotten to him in time.

"But I did. Caught him in mid-air and flipped him around so I hit the ground first and he landed on me. Broke my fuckin' leg in the process. Blood everywhere, and it hurt like a bitch…but the bone was already healing, and it was healing all fuckin' wrong. I made Jimmy get me a big rock and I broke it again and tried to set it right. Did a damn fine job too, for a kid.

"We didn't have any friggin' clue what had happened but when the Howlett bitch saw me covered in blood, she was scared outta her wits." The memory made him smile savagely. "For that first year, I'd get these random spurts of strength and speed, and I could heal from almost anything. My dad figured somethin' was wrong when I got clipped by a horse's hind leg one day and didn't even have a bruise. Instead, I'd gotten so pissed at the horse that I'd slashed a fist at it, and the thing bled and screamed till the doc came and tried to patch it up—nearly had to shoot the damn thing. My dad didn't care enough about anything but Jimmy to even be scared by it, but Mrs Howlett raised a right fuss and wanted me taken away. Strange, but Mr Howlett was the one who put his foot down—said I was good for Jimmy." Creed paused, shrugged. He was sure Mr Howlett wouldn't have been saying the same thing a few years later, when Victor's bloodlust had started getting the best of him. Still… "Mr Howlett always did okay by me, I guess.

"One night there was a fight.I don't know who or what started it—maybe Howlett caught my dad sniffing 'round the bitch's skirts, or maybe my dad decided he wanted to lay claim to Jimmy a his own son. I don't know. But I was reading to Jimmy, and we went downstairs to see what the noise was, and before I knew it, my father had killed Howlett. It was over—just like that. I'd hunted before—with a gun—but I'd never seen a murder.

"Jimmy went nuts—I don't blame him. Howlett was probably the only decent one of us in that whole house, and Jim thought he was his father. His bones started cracking and right in front of us all, these bone claws creeped out from between the kid's little knuckles, and he ran straight at my dad and stabbed him right through." Creed shook his head, chuckling. "I was glad he'd killed the bastard, and jealous too. Wish I'd done it first. Anyway, in that—that fucking _second,_ I still didn't know we were blood yet—but I knew we were _brothers._ Something more powerful than blood. We were the _same."_

She was still against him, only her fingers moving, stroking the back of his neck.

"Don't ask Jimmy, by the way. He gets pissed nowadays when someone tells him he's like me." The big man grinned ferally. "Anyway, then my dad kind of blubbers and gasps and says he's Jimmy's dad, too, and the Howlett bitch throws a righteous fit and starts screamin' at Jimmy, and I just know now that we've been left alone with the cunt, she's gonna turn on us, tell the rest of the settlers what happened, get us killed. So I grab Jimmy and we run into the forest, and I told him I'd take care of him like always, and from then on it's just trying to find a place to be home."

She stroked his cheek. "How old were you and Jimmy when you were on your own?"

He rolled his face up to hers. Behind her head the movie played on, and over it sat the pictures of her and her own family. He thought how easy things must have been for her, with a family that loved her. For a moment, it made him hate her all over again.

"I was fourteen," he said roughly. "Jimmy was eleven."

She tugged his face down and kissed his forehead. He nipped the top of her breast in response—all that soft, sweet-smelling flesh just right under his nose. "It must have been very hard."

He briefly debated making a smart-ass comment about just how hard he was right now.

But then he thought of how wicked the Howlett bitch had been, her sly attempts to destroy him. The studied carelessness of his father. Jimmy tucked under his wing, needing his protection from all the big bad things in the night. The kid waking up with nightmares, crying, his claws extended. Trying to calm the kid enough to get him to retract the sharp daggers of bone, licking the wounds clean. Building shelters. Getting run out of village after village, Jimmy crying all night, and him feeling helpless to get the kid what he needed, what he wanted.

But there had been good things too: thing that made him shudder with savage delight. There was the hunting. Learning how to take down a deer with nothing but his teeth and claws. Bringing rabbits by the bundle home to Jimmy. Beating the shit out of cocky settlers, and Jimmy finally waking up one day, feeling a little better—and better, and better, until he could heal almost as quickly as Victor. And then the wars—where he found his element. Surrounded by bloodshed and lust, completely invincible, taking out _everything_ around him with that coppery smell in the air, filling his mouth.

"Wasn't all bad," he said, smirking against her. "'Sides, that's another story." One he might tell her, too, when he wanted her scared again.

Scared and whimpering beneath him. Making all those pretty pleading noises he liked so much to hear from her.

Yeah. He was definitely drowning.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**Again, sorry for the mediocrity of this chapter. I just really wanted to set the tone of Vic's (previous) relationship with Logan. Some details may have been altered from the film.**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part IV: Pretty much entirely sex. The whole time. Short, minor fluff, in which Creed gets October a prezzie. Aw. Also, more SMUT. And then a cliffhanger…**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part I: October witnesses murder at Creed's hands. October gets in trouble for being stupid and impulsive. Creed reveals a little vulnerability [insert Sentimental Hogwash warning here]. Creed goes on a fieldtrip to see an old friend (and by friend, I mean someone he hates) and we discover he's been stealing things from October…but it's okay—and hopefully amusing.**


	13. Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part IV

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter IV: The Drowning Man, Part IV**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

It had been much longer than Victor Creed had ever kept a woman alive before—and _around,_ no less; and _unabused_—and still, October had yet to cease fascinating him.

The other day, for instance. He'd continued attending the court sessions, even though he probably shouldn't have, because they just frustrated him with pent-up sexual aggression. At the same time, it was just such a fucking _turn-on_ to see Toby in her element, with her vicious little smile and ice-covered words. Watching her sit on the sidelines, quietly responsible for a thorough _fucking _of Mendohls and the Friends of Humanity, smelling the heat that poured off her when she was all tense and excited and running on adrenaline…well, it inevitably led to him entertaining more ideas of dominating her later, owning her, taking over her. Slamming her into the fucking mattress.

Which was decidely _not_ what had happened after the third session of Roman v. Roman.

Instead, she'd elegantly walked ahead of him into the apartment, and the moment he'd closed the door behind them, she'd fairly launched herself at him.

He'd caught her shoulders, surprised—for a minute thinking she was stupidly trying to attack him. Her hands had caught at his collar when he lifted her though, ready to shake her till her teeth rattled, and before he could so much as bellow into her face, she was peeling his coat halfway off and had her mouth sealed to the skin of his neck. He paused at the heat of her lips and tongue on his throat, and she gave a little grunt of frustration at being unable to remove his shirt.

He didn't think a woman had ever thrown herself on him like that before. Not unless they were trying to defend someone else.

"For God's sake, Mr Creed, put me down and get your damn clothes off," she'd muttered, sounding vexed, the scent of her arousal suddenly thick in the air. Her little fists were knotted in his collar, tugging.

His eyes had widened at the sound of popping threads. The seam along his shoulder split under her tiny, fierce hands.

Jesus, the frail was ripping his goddamn clothes off.

It was something entirely new to him— for a moment, he actually felt unattached from his brain. Her eagerness, her aggression: it was all utterly foreign to him, almost baffling.

It was also extremely hot.

He'd turned, setting her firmly on the counter and stepping back, shrugging out of his coat and yanking the shirt off his head. When he'd turned back to her, she'd already pulled her blue jacket off and was unbottoning the high collar of her blouse. With a tiny growl of frustration, she had jerked on it, and a button went flying, pinging off something else in the room and disappearing from sight.

He had laughed, moving toward her, but was still startled when she vaulted from the countertop, her legs flying around his waist and her hands pressed against the sides of his head. Her mouth crashed against his so hard that for a second, before his lip healed, he could taste blood from both of them. He staggered backward under her assault—not from her strength, certainly, but from the sheer surprise of it all.

She'd seemed to take it as encouragement, though, rocking her body backward and then throwing herself forward again, the torn collar of her shirt draping low on her breasts as she pressed against him. He realized after a perplexing moment that she was actually _herding _him toward the hallway, even without having her own feet on the floor.

"You wild animal," he had chuckled around her mouth, but she'd attacked again, driving him backward, rubbing her body across his.

Creed did not believe in heaven—and even if he had, he knew it wasn't meant for creatures like him. Still, in that moment, he could understand why Norsemen had told stories of Valhalla.

"Valkyrie," he had muttered, half-laughing and pleased—and more than a little staggered. "Hellcat." Nonetheless, intrigued and aroused, he had obeyed her urgent thrusting and shoving, and backed into the bedroom, grinning as she bit sharply at the tendon in his throat.

The silly thing was trying to _dominate _him.

When the back of his calves hit the bed, he collapsed backward deliberately, letting her kneel astride on top of him. She shook her hair free and peeled back her torn shirt, her breasts upthrust as she arched and stretched over him.

He could roll her under him and pin her wrists and fuck her like crazy, if he wanted. She was no match for him, physically. For a moment, he had wondered again if his dominance was being threatened, if he should—

But she had dipped suddenly, sliding her skin over his, dragging her nipples across his chest. Her movements were sinuous. As she moved downward, nearly folded in half, the tangle of her blond hair fell in a curtain over his abdomen. She bent, and he felt her working at his belt buckle. He couldn't see though the tangled waterfall of her hair, but he could feel her hot, damp breath. One fist stroked the length of him in a tight grip, while her other little hand began massaging his pair.

She flicked her tongue against him.

Well, Creed had reasoned. If he didn't like whatever she was doing, he could take matters back into his own hands whenever he liked.

It just so happened that he had ended up liking every. Single. Second of it.

And even moreso, he liked the look on her face when she was riding him, the pleasure she took from working him over. It was clear she didn't have the same capacity for raw animal gloating that he had, but the smug satisfaction in her eyes when she force a groan from him was rewarding in its own right. Adorable, in its own way. Even delicious, in fact.

His frail was tough. Demanding. Strong, in spite of her human nature.

Maybe because of it.

In spite of her aggression, the way she'd—hell, she'd fucking _taken him; _Victor Creed had been _taken—_in spite of all that, she still had new bruises on her waist where he'd gripped her, a few accidental gouges where his claws had punctured the soft skin behind her hips. He'd left thin, reddened welts on her stomach, but they had only served to make her arch more at the time, move harder against him, roll her hips just the way he liked.

And she seemed to take just as much gratification from giving him pleasure as she did from getting her own. Somehow, unexpectedly, it was all working in his favor.

Which was paradoxical, to his way of thinking. Confusing, and troublesome.

Also, very good. For him, anyway.

He was sitting and thinking about this anomoly, his eyes piercing the dark without aid of a lamp or lightbulb, when she came home in the evening. She had asked him to go out earlier, and on a whim, he told her to spend the day however she wanted. It was barely a courtesy; they both knew if she tried to leave, he could track her easily, drag her back by her hair, make her life a hell. Still, she had looked so surprised and happy at the prospect of it, he'd been pleased to play along.

Probably too pleased.

He reasoned that giving her some small measures of freedom would only warm her to him. Make her more pleasant to be around, more generous with herself than she already was. They were small but effective gifts—certainly more effective than the stupid trinkets Wilson had gotten for his women—and he could use this to make her his.

And dammitall to hell if he couldn't wait to own her completely. The thought filled him with the same kind of savage, gleeful buzz he used to get right before being dropped in a warzone. He'd keep her beneath him all the time. Except for when she wanted to be on top. He thought he could let her do that again, nearly any damn time she wanted.

Maybe fight her for it. Wouldn't that be fun? He could imagine rolling her under him, nipping at her throat while she bit and clawed at him. _Fucking hell._

He knew she was there before the door even opened—he could smell the almond-scent of her shampoo and hear the familiar cadence of her feet in the corridor.

"Mr Creed?" she asked when she opened the door. He hadn't turned on the lights when the sun had gone down, and the apartment was dark and filmy with shadows. He straightened in the gloom, and his eyes caught the little light left in the room and shone like flat coins at her: a predator's eyes. She gasped and choked at the sight before realizing it was him, but his silence brought her apprehension surging back to the forefront.

"Mr Creed?" She turned to one side, carefully setting down the grocery bags she'd carried in with her. She was wearing a thin sweater-dress in rich blue-purple, which softly carressed each curve of her body, and white heels that made her legs look long and tan. Around her throat was a four-strand collar of fake pearls. She'd taken to wearing thick choker necklaces since he'd begun nipping her neck a few days back.

She straightened, moving toward him slowly in the shadows, her hands spread out at the height of her hips, like a tight-rope walker's, moving tentatively to warn her of furniture. He thought it was pathetic that her senses were so handicapped by the night that she couldn't see or smell or even remember with clarity where her furniture was placed. Somehow, the thought brought with it a sudden surge of warmth for her.

He also thought she looked like a ballerina n the darkness.

"Mr Creed? I bought you steak—"

The thoughtfulness of her gesture snapped something inside him, and he finally ground out, "It's stupid for you to keep calling me that. I am _fucking_ you, after all."

It was harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism against the sensation of drowning.

But somehow she seemed to know that. Her lips twitched in a dry smile as she leaned toward the sound of his voice, edging closer to the couch and feeling her way to a bare space where she could sit. He caught her hands in his, though, tugging sharply so that she stumbled and fell softly against his lap.

"Why didn't you turn on the lamp?" he murmured into her hair, breathing in the heavy scent of it. Almonds. Heat. Light.

She shrugged and leaned into him, letting his hot, calloused fingers slip into the neck of her sweaterdress and peel it away from her shoulder. The dress was cheaply made, but soft—he thought about dragging it slowly over her nipples.

Time for that later. Now, his lips followed his fingers, a slight brush of flesh on flesh, the fine hair on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin of her shoulder. He felt her shudder. For now, her arousal outweighed her fear.

"I figured you must have left them off for a reason," she said lightly, twisting in his lap. Her hand came up to cup his furred chin, and she lifted his face so she could press her lips gently against his own. "Is everything okay?" she asked against his mouth, her voice soft as the shadows around them.

He didn't answer, but pulled back and tucked her head under his chin. She wriggled on his lap. "I have to put the meat in the fridge," she said apologetically, trying to move away.

He held her more tightly and grinned, relishing in the feel of her rubbing and twisting against him. "You're not going anywhere if you keep movin' like that, frail," he purred in her ear, and she laughed, surprised, and stilled.

"You're going to have to cook it anyway—if you want it cooked at all," she offered after a minute. "I suck at cooking, remember?"

"So you've said," he mocked, his voice a low growl. He nipped at the curve of her ear. She craned her neck upward, kissing his mouth. He dove into the kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth as he tried to devour her: for her kindness, her tenderness, for everything she offered. She nipped his lip with her blunt human teeth and he growled, pulling back a little.

"I got somethin' for you too," he growled.

He could see her smile in the dark and felt her wriggle on his lap—intentionally, this time.

He grinned, his teeth glinting with real humor. "Not that."

"Oh," she pouted, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "What could possibly be as good as—"

He lifted his fist in front of her face, then loosened his fingers. A silver chain dropped abruptly from his hand, letters jangling. It flashed in the dim light.

_SISTERS._

In retrospect, he realized Wilson's women must have all been absolutely braindead. Any frail of Victor Creed's would be offended by worthless baubles. She would want something that was important, that _meant_ something.

One more way to win her over, he rationalized. One more road to owning her entirely.

"Got it fixed the other day, frail," he said, trying to make his voice sound suitably gruff and careless. "Didn't mean to break it."

He delicately circled her wrist with the bracelet, clipping it shut with his surprisingly deft claws. When he looked back up at her, her eyes were glimmering in the darkness. She was looking up blindly, where she thought his eyes might be, and her sightlessness in the dark made her strangely endearing to him.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I can't—I wish I could tell you—just, thank you."

He grunted uncomfortably, shifting under her, but the tearful gleam in her eyes and the way her lips trembled gratefully made him feel strangely intoxicated. "Just kiss me, frail," he demanded, his voice sounding caustic in the dark.

She didn't look disturbed by his acidic tone, though: if anything, she had a mysterious gleam in her eyes, and was more than happy to comply. It was obvious in how her damp, sentimental smile curved and she uncurled in his arms like a flower, reaching for him. Her mouth moved to his, tentative at first. She twisted in his arms, straddling him, the bottom of her dress sliding up her thighs. He trailed the backs of his knuckles against the smooth skin there as she wound her arms around his neck. Her tongue was cool and tasted like water to a thirsty man: flavorless, but somehow strangely sweet. She paused, holding his lower lip between her teeth ever-so-gently and tugging just a bit. He opened his mouth just a bit wider at her soundless urging, and before he knew what she was about, she flicked her tongue experimentally against one fang.

_Intentionally._

The iron-and-nickel taste of blood flooded his mouth and he reared back, shocked. His cock, already hard in his black pants, jumped and twitched at the taste of her sweetness. He bolted straight up, catching her around the waist before she fell, remembering the girl he'd kissed generations ago, when he was just fourteen and unaccostomed to the mouths of girls and his own sharp fangs.

He remembered how Mary had screamed and clawed at him. And here was this girl, deliberately—

It was like hitting a switch. He was always, either openly or latently, a predator, and that coppery offering of blood had been enough to drive him into darker waters.

_The hunt is on._

He was gonna chase her all over the damn apartment, and then screw her into submission.

He looked down at her. She looked worried in the dark.

"I'm sorry—should I not have—?"

"I am going to fuck you so hard, you won't be able to move for a month," he snarled._ The hunt is on. The hunt is on._ He felt giddy, buzzing on adrenaline and lust. He rocked on his toes, ready to pounce.

She scrambled away from him, surprised and more than a little scared. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. Gravelly. "Provoke me?" God, but he wanted _more._ Was there no end to what she'd give him? He'd take it _all. _"Did you forget I'm a goddamn _animal_?"

She licked her lips and he realized suddenly she was more scared than excited. For fuck's sake, but she was a precious little thing.

"Don't worry," he purred. "I swear I'll make sure you enjoy every minute of it."

There it was again—the spicy musk of her arousal. He grinned in the dark, the dim light from the street glinting off his fangs. _So. Fucking. Satisfying._ He ran his tongue over his sharp canines suggestively. "I'll give you a three-second headstart."

She gasped and bolted to her feet, stumbling down the hallway and tripping over her heels.

"Don't hurt yourself," he called after her mockingly. "That's for me to do."

A muffled curse and a thump, and then he followed her, slowly, as the door down the hall slammed. He was jittery with adrenaline and restraint. The click of the lock reverberated in the hallway, followed by the tell-tale pop of it not working, and she cursed again. He grinned, rolling his tongue in his mouth, savoring the faint remains of her blood-sacrifice.

He clicked his nails on the wall as he walked closer. The sound echoed in the apartment. He caught sight of her heels abandoned in the hall—the smart girl had kicked them off in her stumbles. She tried the lock again; it stuck for a second before popping out, and he chuckled. The sound resonated through the dark.

"It's for the best anyway," he mocked, his voice low. He could hear her breathing heavily. "You don't want to lose your security deposit if I have to break down the door." He tested the doorknob, grinning when he encountered mild resistance. She was trying to hold it closed—how quaint. And laughable.

"I don't want to hurt you when I knock this door in," he purred, resting his ear on the door. He heard her sharp intake of breath and grinned again, licking his lips. "If I yank the doorknob too hard, I don't want to you to twist your pretty wrist off."

He heard the rattle of her releasing it swiftly. "That's a good girl," he cooed, twisting the knob. "I think you deserve a reward."

He leand his shoulder into the door slowly, and snickered at the slight resistance. She had her back to it, he guessed, her now-bare feet planted on the floor as she tried to anchor it closed against him. For a moment he thought about warning her to move—him slamming into the door would definitely open it, but it could throw her to the floor or hit her, skid over her pretty feet, or otherwise damage her. Besides, he didn't need the element of surprise—sometimes anticipation was the best route. Slowly, he continued to press his weight into the door, inexorably pushing it open an inch, then two. She scuffled and skidded, trying to hold her ground, and he clicked his tongue at her scornfully.

"It doesn't have to be so bad," he rumbled, grinning delightedly at her resistance. "I'll even tell you what I'm gonna do so you can be prepared."

Her arm lashed out, gripping the doorframe as she tried to block his entrance. He smirked: ah, the endless mistakes of any quarry. Instead of fighting or pushing at her hand, he leaned closer to it and gently rasped his wide, flat tongue over the inside of her wrist.

She gasped and whipped her hand back inside the room, loosing another two inches of ground in the process.

"That was a glimpse," he teased. "I'm going to lick you from cunt to chin, honey."

Her heart jumped and raced.

"You know," he goaded, "you're only making things—ah—_harder_ on yourself." He slipped an arm in the door, reaching for her, and she jolted away, allowing him to slide easily through the doorway.

She backed up, her eyes wide and dark with both fear and invitation, and something softer and even more intense, all at once.

"Oh," he growled, and it came out a bit of a groan. "My_ girl."_

He crossed the room in a stride, swinging her around and throwing her onto the bed. She bounced on the mattress, her voice jarring with the impact, and he was on her, pinning her hands above her head with one thumb pressed into each palm, stroking the satiny skin.

"Pretty prey," he murmured into her throat, breathing in the scent of her fear and musk before trapping both wrists in his left hand and slicing away her sweaterdress with the other. So much for dragging it over her nipples and taunting her with it. He would buy her another so he could do it again, the way he'd originally intended.

Now, however, the soft fabric floated away in the wake of his claws, revealing a pretty black bra-and-panty set. He growled and pulled down one cup of the bra, baring her right nipple, and bent his head. He almost engulfed one heavy breast with his mouth, biting gently with a growl. His fangs nicked her and she bowed under his assault. He pulled back, nipping and sucking her nipple, drawing the whole areola into his mouth. She quivered beneath him and he grinned against her flesh.

"That's for being good and letting go of the doorknob," he purred, licking the side of her breast and the blowing on her damp nipple. She shivered, and he watched her breast jiggle with a smug grin. "This," he added, rolling his weight suddenly to his other side and snagging her bra strap with a claw, cutting through it. "This is for not letting me in." He pinched her nipple sharply and she cried out, her body struggling beneath his. "Punishment," he clarified, almost purring with the satisfaction of it. She thrashed when he pinched again, harder, and muffled a cry as she tried to squirm away. He moved lower, securing the pink pebble between his teeth and tickling it with his tongue. She arched and struggled against the mixture of pain and pleasure.

"Mr Creed—"

"_Victor_, dammit," he growled around his mouthful of flesh before pulling back and sliding one hand down to her abdomen. He slipped a finger under the scrap of black lace and she stilled, terrified and breathless and gloriously aroused. "I think maybe that mistake will require another penalty." She gasped and tried to twist out of his grasp, but he held onto her by one curled finger in the waistband of her underwear. "Ah, how cute. You're trying to get away."

He dragged her under him even further, trapping her legs between his powerful thighs and yanking her hands down to pin them under his knees.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way." She struggled, her body arching under him, and he smirked. "The hard way then. That's what I was hoping for."

Leaning back, he dragged one claw through the fragile lace over her mons, the silky fibers of her panties popping against the sharpness of his talon. His nail curved dangerously close to her clit. She froze, terror welling in her as his clawed index finger hovered there for a moment, and he abruptly curled his finger to stroke a smooth knuckle across the tiny bundle of nerves. Her fear dissolved in a wave of lust at the light touch.

He tweaked her clit quickly. She cried out at that, bucking beneath him, and he bared his teeth.

"What are yougonna call me?" he asked lightly, mockingly, while delicately dragging the side of his knuckle between her nether lips and up over her clit again.

She bit at her lip, eyeing him with wide, damp eyes full of desire and alarm. "Please," she whispered, still trying to wriggle away.

He replaced his knees with his hands, sliding down her legs until he was at eye-level with her sex. She struggled to clamp her thighs shut but he forced them apart, his fingers digging into the flesh as he grinned up at her brutishly.

"Open up for me, sugar," he commanded, prying her legs open easily. "Lemme look at your pretty self." He ran a tongue slowly over his fangs, smile widening as he stared at her glistening pink flesh. She moaned and shuddered as he took his time, eyeing her thoughtfully, and then lapped at her clit with a wide, rough tongue.

She jolted and tried to sit up, pulling desperately against hishands. "What are you—"

"What are you going to call me, frail?" he mocked, carefully moving his mouth closer before closing his lips over her. He flicked his tongue experimentally and she cried out. He sucked at her briefly, and when she wriggled desperately, he grinned.

"What are you to going to call me? Answer now, or I swear—"

She thrashed against him, almost blinded by panic and want, and he grinned.

"Have it your way, kitten," he purred, blowing on her clit and then securing it between his blunt front teeth as deftly as he could, carefully avoiding her flesh with his fangs. The sudden pressure had her arching off the mattress, crying _"Victor!"_ in an agony of submission.

He devoured her then, his tongue moving over and between her folds, licking at her clit generously while she twisted and bent beneath him.

"Let me go," she begged, flexing her fragile wrists in his hold. "Please—oh, _please,_ Victor—let me go. I want to—I want to touch you—"

He bit gently at her again and she almost howled at the feel of it. He smirked. "I can make you _sing,_ frail," he murmured against her, pleased with himself. He pulled himself back over her, the muscles rolling beneath his skin sinuously, and lifted her roughly around the waist before tossing her more toward the center of the bed and crawling atop her.

"Are you going to fight me again, frail?" he queried, before trailing one long lick up from her navel to her neck. She gasped, hands flying to his chest, and pushing against him. It was utterly futile—she might as well have been pressing against a brick wall—and he grinned at her, licking his fangs. "I hoped so," he rumbled appreciatively into her ear, trailing the sides of his fingers along the back of her knee in a way that he knew made her weak. He caught the tender flesh there, bending her leg and drawing it tightly against his hip as he unzipped his black pants. He rubbed himself against her slickness and then slid into her tight sheath.

"What a _sweet_ pussy," he gloated. "And it's all mine. Innit, frail?"

She moaned at the fullness, her hands no longer pushing away, but knotted in the tight, sleeveless t-shirt he was still wearing. His dog tags fell between her breasts, cool on her feverish skin. Her fingers snaked up under the fabric, trying to unclothe him, andher legs locked around his waist with surprising strength for a nonmutant, and a frail besides. He was too tall for her to kiss his lips when they were matched like this, but her mouth sought his flesh desperately wherever she could find it. He groaned into her hair, eagerly drinking in her acceptance, her invitation. He slammed into her, holding back just enough to not damage her, twisting his hips when he plunged inside her and making her cry out with want. She slid back across the bed with every thrust, till she was pinned against the pillows and wall as he slid into her savagely.

"Mine," he ground out again, and if she didn't respond verbally, her eyes said enough. She gasped and tensed, her legs tightening around his body as her muscles milked him. A low keening started in her throat and at the sound of it, he thrust into her one last time, arching back himself as she crumbled around him in a boneless mass.

It took all his remaining strength not to collapse on top of her, afraid he would crush her with his bulk. Instead, he rolled to one side, taking her with him and tucking her face against his chest. Her limbs sprawled over him weakly. He smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, then slipped his hands to the nape of her neck to deftly remove the four-strand necklace of pearls that still clung to the narrow column of her neck. She cuddled into him, a silent thank-you for his delicacy.

"You keep ruining my clothes," she pointed out sleepily. "Soon I won't have any left."

He chuckled, his chest vibrating under her. "Is that supposed to convince me to stop?" he asked drily, running his tongue over his fangs speculatively. He felt her frown against his chest, and grew serious. "I'll buy you another," he offered, running his claws lightly up her bare arm.

She shivered, then scowled, but he knew she wasn't really angry—just frustrated, and maybe a little concerned at her rapidly dwindling collection of pretty garments. He knew she didn't have much money, or she'd be living in better digs than this.

"I don't want another," she said stubbornly. "And I don't want to—" She paused. Then: "I don't want to _use_ you like that."

He stilled, then tugged her up to bury his nose in her hair. "You were right," he aid quietly against her curls, so low she almost didn't hear it.

She tipped her head up to him. "Mr—Victor?"

He eyed her silently, not allowing any emotion into his face, then said quietly, "You're about a far from normal as you can get."

She flushed a little—he felt the heat of it in her face—and murmured, "I am going to take that as a compliment." Then, tugging weakly at his shirt, "Can you take this damn thing _off?"_

Hechuckled and rolled to one side, half-sitting up as he clawed the shirt over his head. Resituated, he tucked her head back down against his shoulder before returning to the topic at hand and treading more carefully than he thought he ever had, in any past conversation. "I have a lot more money than you think," he said quietly. "I can afford to get you—pretty things. At least to replace what I ruin." He knew the idea of it was all wrong for her, but he couldn't help but offer. There was only so much he knew how to do to win a frail over.

She shifted, and he could tell she wasn't comfortable with the idea.

"I don't want you to pay—"

A thought struck him and he paused, then plunged. He tipped her face up, one claw pressed to the soft underside of her chin. "You're not going to deny me the pleasure of tearing your clothes off you, are you?" he purred darkly. "I like that part. A lot."

He watched as the stubbornness melted away, replaced by indecision and something like sadness or regret, and he felt both marvel and triumph.

"Frail," he groaned, pulling her up and letting her breasts slide up his chest till he could bury his face in her neck, looping his huge arms around her fragile ribcage. _You sweet little thing._

She wrapped her arms tenderly around his head, holding him against her. He lapped at her throat with a wide, flat tongue, and she ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He could almost feel her confusion rolling off her at his gesture, but he didn't bother to elaborate, simply laving her bare throat as gently as he could.

All the little bloody bites and bruises—poor girl—

Suddenly her heart jumped, and she gasped—"Your steak!"—trying to wriggle weakly from his embrace.

He nuzzled into her neck, reveling in the feel of her breasts on his chest and against his throat. "Don't worry about it," he ordered, lapping at her throat. "Just stay here."

"It's going to go bad," she protested half-heartedly, and he looked up to see her face absolutely flooded with dismay. "And you got me my bracelet fixed. It might already be rotten—"

He groaned again, a rekindling of desire, andkissed the skin over her heart. "All right. Just—"

Glass shattered suddenly and they jolted apart. Toby leapt from her place astide his abdomen and he rolled from the bed to the floor, landing on his fingertips and toes, like a cat. There were voices in the living room and he zipped his pants up, moving to the door at the same time that Toby—wrapped in the sheet from the bed—reached for the doorknob.

He caught her waist. "What the fuck d'you think you're doing?" he snarled in a whisper, and flung her back toward the bed. "Stay put!"

He moved down the hall faster than she could blink, but she stumbled after him, trying to be quiet. There was no way in _hell_ she was just going to _stay put,_ like a dog.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: This chapter was…interesting to write. As mentioned before, it's pretty much entirely smut. There's not a lot (re: any) real plot development. However, I like to think that these scenes also gives us a chance to see viewpoints and behaviors we might not otherwise. Sex is when almost everyone—including Victor Creed—is at their most vulnerable, and in his case—with this particular woman—most conflicted.**

**Let's see if it worked... :) **


	14. Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"_Fuck!"_ she heard one of the intruders squeal, and turned the corner just in time to see Victor plant a single hand firmly against the man's chest and shove him easily back toward the fire escape. The force of the blow was so strong that the man hit the rail hard. He bent backward over the railing, and Toby gasped as she saw the shadow of his feet fly up in the air, silhouetted against the clouded nightsky, before he tumbled over the edge.

There was a soft crunch from below.

She had only just registered what happened when Victor moved back into her line of sight, the other intruder caught with his throat in the huge mutant's hand. Victor moved him over to the rail where the first man had just disappeared, bending him back viciously.

"Tell me why the fuck you're here," he growled, "or I'll snap your spine like a twig. "

"There was a man," the prowlerpanted out. "He said we should hit this place up. Take what we wanted. That—that's it!"

Victor sneered, baring his teeth in a savage grin and bending the man back farther over the rail. The intruder scrabbled at the massive hand at his throat, alternately trying to hold onto it for leverage and break its grip.

"I know how these things work, you fucking pussy. Some jackass doesn't tell you, 'Hey, maybe you should rob this place.'" The last was said in a mocking falsetto. "Not without another motive. Now—" he pushed farther and something in the man's back popped. He screamed. "—Tell me the rest. Before I decide to have some fun." Creed grinned then, licking his fangs and letting them reflect moonlight. "And oh, it _will_ be fun."

"He said we were s'posed to fuck the girl!" the man shrieked. "Kill her—make it look like a—a burglary gone bad! He was gonna pay us if we got rid of her!"

Toby stared, stunned and horrified, her lips parted.

"Why?" Victor growled, his voice colder than anything she'd heard before. He could see the image—if he hadn't been there—the wreckage of the room, her body limp on the other side of the couch, her legs a tangle of bruises and blood. Eyes empty.

He could see it as clearly as if he'd done it himself.

After all, he had done it himself. A hundred times over.

"I don't know why, man!" the criminal choked out, sounding desperate and tearful. "I swear, I don't know!"

"Victor," she whispered, sounding terrified.

"Go back to your room, October," he growled, not looking up.

"I just—I should tell you—"

"It just seemed like—free pussy, you know?" the man was babbling, not knowing when to shut up. Digging his own grave. "Hell, he was gonna pay _us—"_

"Go back!" he bellowed, flicking a furious glance over at October and tightening his hold on the man's neck. The prowler's eyes bulged behind his ski mask, and Victor shook him by the throat. His head snapped back and forth like a rag doll's, and Creed sneered down at him. "This is insulting. Did they pick the most pathetic kids they could find to try to get in here? What the _fuck_ were they thinking?"

The scent of salt hit the air. The prowler had started crying, and Creed chuckled nastily. "Come on, kid," he said, mock-encouragingly, and shook him by the throat some more. He wondered if the intruder would be able to see straight, much less speak coherently. _"Why?"_ he demanded savagely, his teeth clenched in a hard-toothed smile.

When the man didn't answer, stammering and crying, Creed let his claws sink into the flesh of his throat. "It's been a while since I killed someone," he purred, his voice a false comfort, "…couple days, I think. So this may take a while."

"I swear I don't know," the smaller man blubbered. He smelled like piss and sweat and fear. He also smelled like he was telling the truth. "I don't know! I swear it!"

Creed smiled. "Then you're no use to me," he said nonchalantly, and with a crunch, the man's head snapped back on his neck.

Toby gasped, and Creed lifted his hand, tipping the man backward over the rail to join his friend on the pavement. Silent, scowling now, he turned back to face her. She stared blindly where the man had been, and he strode toward her purposefully, grabbing her upper arms in his hands.

"Look at me, Toby," he ordered.

When she didn't look up, he shook her briefly. Her dark eyes turned to him slowly, and he almost flinched at the sudden, powerful scent of her fear.

"Listen to me." She didn't respond and he shook her again. "Are you listening, frail? Since I know you can't fucking listen to me when I tell you to _go back to your goddam room."_

"I'm listening," she murmured, her voice a tremor.

"I'm going to make some calls and get this taken care of. You'll have a new window before you wake up in the morning. _You,_ frail, are going to go back to bed and wait for me, and I swear there will be _hell_ to pay. You're not going to breathe a word of this—to _anyone._ Do you hear me? If anyone from the building asks you about the noise in the morning, you're going to say you slept the entire night and didn't hear a thing. And you're not going to tell McQuay, or the red-haired bitch, or any other little friends of yours. Do you hear me?"

She looked at him bleakly and he cursed.

"Do you _hear_ me, frail?"

"I hear you, Mr Creed," she whispered.

He glowered at the formal name. _All my hard work, dammit. _"Get back to that room, and stay there, goddammit."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

It had been almost two hours before he got off the phone, and he loped toward the bedroom feeling more tired than he had in decades. The kills he'd made tonight had been quick and clean, surprisingly lacking in brutality, but he couldn't expect her to understand that. She'd be scared of him, repulsed, and angry, and everything he'd wanted would be undone—

He opened the door, expecting her to be asleep, but she was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him. The sheet was still wrapped around her. He wondered if she'd moved since he'd sent her back here hours before.

She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed, and he moved toward her menacingly, determined to put the fear of God in her.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, frail? Are you a fucking moron? Did I _stutter? _ Did you somehow think when I told you _stay put _that I meant _place yourself directly in the line of fire?"_

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What if I hadn't been here?" he demanded, looming over her. She looked down, and he grabbed her face at either side, forcing her to look up at him. "What would you have done then? Besides fought and _failed._ Oh wait, let me guess," he said nastily. "You would have screamed and cried like a little bitch, and _you would have fucking died."_

He knew that might not be true. He remembered the time he'd had her pinned to the living room wall, and she'd elbowed him good in the throat. She would have dropped a normal man.

Still, her death was a possibility. One he didn't like. And he couldn't get the image of it out of his head.

_No-one breaks my women. No-one but me._

"I didn't want you all alone out here," she whispered. "What if you'd gotten hurt?"

The snarl started in his gut and was more feral than anything he'd felt around her before. "I have a healing factor, you worthless piece of _tail."_

She flinched and swallowed heavily, licking her lips and looking up at him. "I couldn't bear it if you'd been one room away, hurt—however briefly—and I was doing nothing. You—" She broke off, and her eyes shone. The scent of salt water stung the air. "I'll never be able to sit back and not do anything," she said, "especially when that means watching you work to protect me all by yourself, alone, when you could be hurt by it." She paused, biting her lower lip and those perfect, clear tears trembling on her lashes. "Weak or not, I'm a fighter—it's part of my nature. If you want me, I'd hope—" Her voice broke, then came back strong. "You should want all of me, Victor. Lord knows I want all of you."

He was breathing heavily, a mixture of anger and the fear he hadn't felt since one time in the early years of their life when he'd thought Jimmy was dying for sure, and that he was going to fail his little brother.

What had she told him the other day? Teasing, but truthful. _I don't run from things, Mr Creed._

She whispered, "Are you very mad at me?" There was fear in her scent, but mostly grief. Her eyes flicked downward and he realized abruptly that she was looking at his belt, half-expectng him to give her the whipping he'd promised a few weeks earlier. Her eyes moved to his clenched fists—maybe she was thinking of worse.

He was suddenly aware that something inside him felt hollow. It was like when he'd broken bones in the past, and the hard tissue was trying to knit itself back together. Only this time, there was nothing to heal, and the result was that he felt…some sort of twitch and strain deep in his marrow.

With sinuous, unthinking grace, he moved to the floor before her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her lap. He drank in her scent.

She froze, her muscles tightening under him, then slowly relaxing. After a moment, he felt the light touch of her hands in his hair, brushing delicately over the dark strands, stroking the soft, short fur on his cheeks and jaw. He shuddered against her, not knowing why, and felt her lean over to press a kiss to the back of his head. He knotted his hands in the sheet at the small of her back, every muscle locked and tense, unfamiliar with the knot that had settled in his stomach.

"I've been shot in the heart and cut into pieces, stabbed, electrocuted, had my throat slit, and been hit with flaming arrows," he said at last, his voice muffled in her lap. Her hands continued their soothing strokes through his hair, light and reassuring, and he didn't even know what he was saying anymore.

_I can't come back from you dying._

"Say it," he demanded into her thighs. His voice was muffled by the sheet. _"Say it." _

_No-one fucks her up but me. No-one touches her. No-one lays a goddamn _hand—

Instead of responding, her hands curved under his jaw, gently lifting his face till he looked up at her.

"Come lay with me," she said softly, pulling back onto the bed and propping herself on the pillows, opening her arms to him. He crawled up beside her, muscles rolling under the skin, and she wrapped her arms around him, one hand curling around the back of his head and pressing his cheek to her breast. "Listen," she whispered. "I'm alive."

"I'm gonna kill you," he muttered savagely against her. He meant every goddamn word. Or he thought he did. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever I'm done with you. Gonna slice your belly open. Watch your guts fall out."

She didn't respond, just moving her fingers over the nape of his neck and the soft hair at the base of his skull. Silently, cradled against her shoulder, he listened to the steady thrum of her heart in his ear. When he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her tighter against him, he felt the vertabrae in her spine shift and pop, but he didn't loosen his hold, just listening to the blood rushing through her and the safe, heavy sound of her breathing. His head rose and fell on her breast with every inhalation, and he breathed in the fragrance of her: almonds, blood, sex.

Her fingers continued stroking through his hair, slowly lulling him to sleep.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Shaking out his hair, damp from the shower, Victor scribbled a note on the pad of legal paper by the phone.

_Out. Be back tomorrow morning, early. _

_Don't be a goddamn idiot._

_C_

He wasn't sure whether he was telling her not to try to run out on him, or to be careful with her precious self and not get fucked up or killed or run into a room of paid-criminal rapists again. He didn't bother to examine his motives and meanings, either. All he knew was that if she wasn't there and healthy and whole when he got back, he'd hunt her down and shred her to pieces himself, the stubborn frail.

He slipped out as the sun was rising, pulling on his trenchcoat and running fleet-footed to a car rental shop six blocks over. It was good to be outside. If he was honest with himself, he didn't know how he'd lasted so long in that tiny apartment. An animal like him got sick of closed-in spaces easily.

The car he rented was a new model, sleek and red. He roared onto the freeway and headed south, breaking every traffic law along the way. When he arrived at his destination, it was four in the afternoon, and he was hungry and even more irritable than he'd been earlier, if such a thing were possible.

"Janey!" he bellowed, slamming the car door shut. "Janey, getcher ass out here!"

A screen door slammed and a woman stepped out onto the huge porch of the house. Her hair was short and cocoa-brown, cropped close above amber, lupine eyes. "Good Lord, Creed, what the fuck are you doing here?" she loped down the steps, her limbs moving with an unnatural, angular grace, and stopped about two arm's-lengths away from him.

"Calling in a favor," he growled.

She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Creed, it's been thirty years. More. _Now_ you want something?"

"Damn straight," he rumbled.

She crossed her arms and threw one hip to the side. "I am _not_ having sex with you, you pig."

He sneered. "This isn't one of your daydreams, Janey. Not like I couldn't take it, anyway, if I wanted it. Fortunately for you, it's awful hard to wash off the smell of dog."

Her lips twitched—with amusement or disdain, he couldn't tell—before she sighed and gestured with her chin toward the huge house with the kennels behind it. "Well, c'mon then. Tell me what you want so I can get you the hell outta here. You're upsetting my dogs." She turned and began walking away, and he could see the tapering line of her hair disappear down the back of her t-shirt in a trail down her spine.

He didn't move to follow her, though. "I want a dog, Jane."

She blinked and turned back to him. "You want a what?"

He glowered. "Did you lose your mutt-hearing, Alpha Bitch?"

She glared right back, her pupils shrinking in the amber iris. "I heard you, you stupid prick. I just can't believe you want one. What for?"

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. "Something big and nasty," he said. "Lots of sharp fuckin' teeth."

She rolled her eyes under bushy brown brows. "Why am I not surprised?"

He bared his teeth at her. "I gotta girl I girl I gotta protect," he added after a moment. "So this thing's gotta be fuckin' _mean,_ but nice enough to her. Got it?"

Her eyebrows flared and she tilted her head, wolf-like.

"When did your line of work turn to bodyguarding?"

He flashed a fang in a half-smirk. "You know I take whatever pays highest," he mocked, avoiding the truth of the matter.

She looked thoughtful. "I s'pose the dog needs to be able to like _you_ then, too," she said after a moment. _"That_ could be difficult."

"Don't be a smartass, Janey," he growled.

She shrugged and stuck a thumb in her mouth, gnawing a little piece of skin at the edge of her nail. Her claws were filed round, but looked as hard and long as Creed's. "I got a guy who's got a rottweiler," she said after a moment. "Nasty bitta work, that one. I can hook you up with it in a few days, all necessary training complete. I'm guessing you want something generally house-friendly, till it smells fear on the girl or sees something threatening."

Victor hesitated. "She's afraid of me, sometimes," he added after a moment.

The woman's eyes flew wide again and she cocked her head once more. "Only sometimes?" she repeated, sounding skeptical. He said nothing, and her eyes narrowed slowly, trying to read him. "You goin' soft, Creed?" she asked suspiciously.

He was across the space separating them before she could blink, her feet dangling and kicking off the ground as he sank his claws deep in her throat.

"You wanna see how soft I am, Janey?" he hissed, watching her eyes go wide and her face turn red. Sweat broke out on her brow and he tightened his fist, feeling something give way in her throat before he dropped her unceremoniously to the ground.

"Bastard," she wheezed, her voice faint and rasping. It was almost know more than a breath. Blood sprayed from her mouth. "I think…you crushed…my voicebox…"

He sneered. "You'll get a new one." He knew her healing factor was slower than his by far. While damaged vocal cords usually didn't take more than a few minutes to heal for him, it would take her well over a week—maybe as long as a month to get the full use of her voice back. "I like you better when you're not talking anyway, Janey."

She glowered from the ground, slowly pulling herself to her feet, and spit a mouthful of blood at him. He pretended not to notice.

"I'll…make sure…the dog knows…you're Alpha," she rasped out breathily. "It won't…attack you. No matter…what."

He thought of some of the ways he held onto Toby—pressing her against the wall, pinning her to the bed. "Good," he said, starting away. "I'll be back soon."

"Wait," Jane scratched out. "I need…something…that smells. Like you…and something like…her."

He paused, shrugged out of his coat, and stripped his sleeveless shirt off before throwing it at her. She sniffed it and pulled a face, looking disgusted.

"That's…most definitely…yours." A pause. "Anything…of hers?"

He hesitated a moment, scowling. "I didn't know I had to bring samples," he grumbled, and she rolled her eyes.

"The fuck…d'you think…I use...to train them? A picture…of your…pretty face?" Blood and spit were collecting in the corners of her mouth.

Reluctantly, he picked up his coat and fished in the right pocket before pulling out a scrap of turquoise lace. Jane's eyes widened when he dangled it in front of her.

"You're…serious?" she choked out. "Jesus…Creed. You just…had these in your…pocket? The hell…are you getting…yourself into?"

He dropped the pair of panties in her hand and scowled, opening the car door. "Five days, Janey. I expect perfection from this mutt."

"She's gonna die, Creed."

His eyes shot over to hers and he was on her in a second, his fingers splayed over his face, gripping her head dangerously with elongated claws. _"Is that threat?" _he roared, ready to rip her apart.

To her credit, she didn't even flinch. Probably a good thing, as he would have torn half her face off.

"It's a fact…of _life_…Creed. Human. No…healing factor. Sooner or later…seventy years…down the road….she's gonna die."

His hand twitched, wanting to tear her apart despite the truth of her words.

"If you breathe a word of this," he murmured, his voice so low that she had to strain to hear it even with her enhanced senses, "I will _end_ you. I will feed you in separate pieces to each of your dogs. See if you can heal from _that."_

He whirled, the sun shining on his bare skin, and slid back behind the wheel.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part II: Creed is faced again with the issue of October's mortality. He also learns something about her that cements the bond between them and drives the rest of the plot. Tragic Melodrama, sassy shower SMUT, followed by the second-most-mushy scene I could imagine. :) Vomit now.**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part III: Start your morning with unresolved sexual tension! Creed makes a new mission for himself, and McQuay is up to something rotten, the little prick. Also, a family reunion and public scene! Yay!**


	15. Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Once evening hit, the drive was quicker than he'd expected, and he ended up back at October's place before one-thirty in the morning. Silently, he keyed in, locking the door behind him and throwing his coat over a chair before he loped down the hall.

She was sleeping on her side at the very edge of the bed, as though to save room for him when he came home. One slender arm trailed over the side, her knuckles just an inch from the floor. The bracelet he'd returned to her was gleaming against her fragile wrist. In the darkness, he made out the sound of her breathing, the soft curves of her form under the bed.

He took her shoulder and rolled her onto her back, shifting her closer to the wall so he could climb in on the outside of the bed, nearer to the door. If any other asshole broke in to try and take his frail, they'd find a killer mutant waiting for 'em.

He caught her dangling wrist and brought it up to his mouth, biting softly.

_Damn frail._

"Victor?" she murmured blearily.

Her brushed his lip over the knuckles, then nipped lightly at her pulsepoint.

"S'me, frail," he rumbled in the darkness before slipping out of his jeans and crawling over her in the darkness. "You're more trouble'n your worth, you know that?"

He didn't mean it. Not even a little bit.

She rolled over to face him, buying herself in his chest. "Mmm," she said. "You smell like—earth and bonfires."

It was like she overrode his every attempt to be cruel.

Or like she saw through him.

His brow furrowed at the thought, and for a moment he thought about biting her littlest finger off—just a reminder of what he could do, if he wanted. He imagined how she'd scream, staring at the place where her extra digit should be, the blood splashing on the sheets.

He wouldn't, though. He liked her whole.

She slid her hand out of his and reached up, tracing the planes of his face, the bridge of his nose. His brows. His cheekbones. His mouth. It felt like she as trying to commit every panel and bone to memory. In the stark blue shadows, he looked like he'd been roughly carved from marble: a beautiful job only half-finished, the lines coarse and brutal.

He wrapped an arm over her shoulders, briefly letting himself relish the feel of her against him, the way she made him feel strong. Powerful.

_It's a fact of life. She's going to die._

She stretched beside him, joints clicking against each other, and he growled softly. "Go back to sleep, frail. You need your rest."

He felt her shake her head. "I have to tell you something. I should have said it last night, but you were so upset—"

He curled a claw under her chin, denting the soft flesh there, and lifted her face to his. "I said go back to sleep."

Her eyes met his. She wasn't backing down. He dug just a bit deeper, drawing blood. The scent of it sang through the air and his mouth watered.

"I think maybe I have an idea of who was responsible for last night," she whispered.

He stilled at that, then blinked. "They were here because of me," he said firmly, roughly. "They were here because someone found out that you're mine." At the same time, he remembered when he'd first come into this shitty little apartment and told her he was an assassin. How she'd thought he was there for her.

She opened her mouth to protest and he pressed a claw into her lip, pricking the flesh and drawing a drop of blood there, too. That one was an accident, and his own carelessness made him growl.

"You might not think you're mine, frail, but everyone else knows it soon as they _look_ at you." After all, she was so banged up she might as well have had his name tattooed along her collarbone.

She stilled, her lips curving into a smile, and kissed his finger. "That may be true," she conceded. "But there're things I haven't told you yet, and maybe I should have. Nothing's happened in so long though, I was hoping—well." She paused and he lay silently, staring at her in the darkness.

"You know I had sisters," she aid after a moment.

His ears pricked at the past tense, but he nodded slowly, remembering the photos on the shelf over the TV. "Three."

"Three," Toby agreed with a smile. "Our parents died when I was fourteen—a car accident. Just after I started being friends with Dean, actually. It was a semi with a faulty brake. Very mundane, really. At the time, the girls—were only eight, six, and five. We were all put into foster care, split up between us. The first couple years were just a huge adjustment. I didn't know what to do, and I had all this pain and no-one to turn to." She shrugged. "When I was fifteen, though—almost sixteen—I figured it out. I wanted to get my sisters back. So I started working and saving and working and saving and working. When I was sixteen, I got a job as a junior receptionist in a local law office and started advocacy training at a few of the local shelters. I graduated high school when I was seventeen and the state released me a few months later, when I turned eighteen. By that time I was making a fair share of money and had a lot saved—a nest-egg, I guess. I, uh, I got an apartment. This one, as a matter of fact. Obviously, it's not—not _great_, but it was nice, and there were two rooms, and I had kind of trained myself to not each much since I was so busy saving money. When I was twenty, I went to court and petitioned for custody of my sisters. And—I _got_ it."

He didn't know the legal system regarding children and custody, but her tone said this was significant. She sounded in awe of the memory, as though it had been a miracle. He guessed that twenty-year-olds with high school diplomas didn't often win custody of three little girls.

"We—we were superclose." She paused, pursed her lips briefly, and then looked at him. "Best friends, in a way. We used to watch movies and read books together and go out to the parks. I'd help them with their school assignments. We planted the Stargazer lilies together, on newspapers in the living room, because in July when they bloom and the sun comes through that window in the morning, the whole apartment smells like them. And the whole time—for the whole time, ever since I was in high school—Dean might've told you—I'd been petitioning for mutant rights. I was actually really successful at it—people were willing to pay for me to come speak at rallies and stuff and we got one of the biggest anti-mutant bills vetoed that year, actually. It was a big deal, and it was stupid of me to think that—that if something went wrong, and people got pissed off, that I would be the only one to suffer for it. It was selfish of me."

He remained silent, but thought that the last word he would have used to describe her was selfish. Naïve, most definitely. And innocent. Occasionally extremely stupid. But not selfish. With a tightening in his gut, he thought he had an idea of where this was going. Already, his blood was pounding, and he was ready to kill something, tear something apart. _Had,_ she'd said. _You know I had sisters._

"Surprisingly, we didn't get a lot of threats. No rocks through the window or vandalism or anything. There were some phone calls, but that's it. And then…" She bit her lip. "My sister Bethie got her first date when she was sixteen-and-a-half. Natalie was almost fifteen at the time, and Genevieve was twelve—and I had met the boy Bethie was seeing that night. He was nice; they went to school together for years.

"Later that night, I went out—to get eggs for Sunday breakfast. I always made something special on Sunday morning—waffles, or, or…pancakes. French toast. Breakfast food was pretty much the only thing I could cook, actually, and even that was risky, but they loved it. I was planning on making crepes, actually, that morning. I remember. I didn't think it would be a big deal, because Natalie and Genevieve were old enough to look after themselves for twenty minutes, and…and I ended up only taking fifteen.

"But it was apparently enough.

"Rob—the boy—he dropped Bethie off at 8:28. He said he knew exactly because Bethie had joked about wanting to be back two minutes before the curfew I gave her. He said he walked her up to the door, and she was sad I wasn't home to tease her." She hiccupped suddenly, unexpectedly, and he saw she was blinking quickly, holding back tears.

"They must have forgotten to lock the door behind them. Or…" A tic in her temple. Her face was carefuly blanked, but her throat worked as though she couldn't swallow. "Or I did. There were no—no marks of forced entry." It sounded like a recitation from a police report. "When I got home—at 8:40, only…twelve minutes after Rob had dropped Bethie off…the door was swinging wide. Things had been knocked apart. The lilies were scattered all over the floor, in the dirt." She looked up at him slowly, meeting his gaze. He had seen that look in the eyes of nearly every man in every war. It was the look she'd worn after her verbal slaughter of Mendohls in the courtroom.

_Haunted._

He was silent, his expression impassive. There was a soft _crunch _as he gritted his teeth. She took it as an accusation, a gaze of contempt. It wasn't so—he was more impressed than he cared to admit; _floored, _really—but she didn't have to know that.

He was even more surprised when she went on anyway, despite the emptiness in her eyes.

"The police never found any of them, or any trace of them—just _Courtesy of FoH_ scratched in the door. There was never any ransom. No bloody body parts in the mail. They were just—gone." Her voice cracked. "And I don't know if they're still alive, or living on the streets, or together or apart, or locked in a basement somewhere. I don't know if they're on drugs now, or in prostitution, or even if they're in the States. Or if they're dead. And every kid I run into out there—could _be _them."

He thought of how he'd taken care of Jimmy, and how when the runt had left it had caused him kind of hollowness that he still sometimes couldn't shake. He imagined having Jimmy _taken_ from him, three times over. Not knowing where he'd gone. Having no way to find him. Not being able to look out for him, the way he always had.

The thought made his blood burn. He clenched his jaw harder and a nerve twitched at the corner of his eyes. For a moment, his vision narrowed in a haze of fury.

"I don't know," she whispered slowly, drawing him back, "if their last moments were lived in fear, or pain." Her voice hardened, her lips tightened. Her brow furrowed. Suddenly every word was ferocious. "And all I can think is if I had been with them—when they were stolen away, or even after—well, maybe I couldn't have saved them, but the last thing they would have seen would have been me." She tensed, her lips white with her fierceness. "_Protecting. Them_."

He stared at her, feeling the tightness and the coiled muscles in her body, every tendon knotted. _Weak or not, I'm a fighter._ Damn straight she was. Jesus. Enraged at himself, at her, and the whole fucking gamut she'd been run through, he wondered what the hell he was doing here. He'd said to her once: _Isn't it funny? You find_ _missing people,_ _I make them disappear._

In another moment, he realized that—had fate twisted just a little—it might have been him, stealing and killing her brats.

A thought occurred to him suddenly, jolting him out of his anger, and he asked, "You haven't _moved?"_ The words were incredulous, first with the revulsion of the fact that this tiny apartment had been shared by four overly-exuberant young women, and then with the even more slow and sickening realization that Toby was still living in the apartment where her sisters had been stolen from her. Every movement through this tiny place must have brought a memory with it.

Hell, when Jimmy had abandoned him, he'd roamed the fucking _world,_ trying to outrun the memories. Trying to gut them, bleed 'em dry. Not only was Jimmy no longer there to hold him back—Jimmy was in so many ways his motivation. For the first six years, every kill had been a form of revenge, an attempt to slaughter whatever Jimmy might have left in him.

He couldn't imagine staying in the same place, seeing it all every day. The carving on the door. Their pictures over the TV. Sweeping the place on the floor where she'd found the overturned lilies.

_I don't run from things, Mr Creed._ The memory bludgeoned him. He wondered briefly if that made her even stronger than him.

"I know it's stupid," October rushed, her eyes almost panicky. She twisted her silver charm bracelet nervously on her wrist. He watched the letters flash in the dim light. "And probably—probably unhealthy, too. But I keep thinking—" her voice cracked, and she swallowed, then said in a whisper, "what if they come home?"

He stared at her. He felt, for a second, just like he had when Jimmy'd walked out: stunned, stricken—_hurt—_and then, furious at the helplessness that those emotions represented. There was no doubt in his mind that these girls had been murdered—probably brutally. They'd almost certainly been aware and afraid.

But she couldn't know that, could she? It _wasn't _like when Jimmy walked out on him. She had know way of being sure they were okay—or sure that they weren't.

"What if they come home," she repeated, "and I'm not here? What if they can't find me?"

The last sentence was a whisper, and Creed stared around the tiny room, drinking it all in. She had stayed here for two years since her sisters' disappearance, knowing they were probably dead but at the same time, too afraid and too stubborn and too goddamn _strong _to leave this place.

"I don't do this job because I love it anymore," she confessed after a moment, so quiet even he had to strain to hear it. "I don't do it selflessly."

He got it. He remembered breaking surface in the river outside Mary's village, hungry and hurting and cold and naked, and the first breath of air he'd taken had been an attempt to smell out Jimmy.

And all her social activism may have once been in the pursuit of a better world—and whether she realized it or not, it still was to an extent: she had nothing to gain by helping Bobby Roman—but now, every moment spent at shelters and soup kitchens and advocating for teens picked up by law enforcement was really just October straining her eyes to try to get a glimpse of her girls.

He hated her life on her behalf. Hated that he hadn't picked up on it, for all his skills in watching and reading others, for all his resources. He'd thought: whatever it was, it didn't matter, because he was making her his and that was all that counted. But it wasn't. How could he have her through-and-through if he didn't know even half of her?

He slid his claws through her tangled hair and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

"Stubborn frail."

He had no idea how to offer comfort—in _general_, much less in a situation that he had been responsible for a dozen times before. He just looked into her eyes, still caught up in his wrath and at the same time, trying to show her something that would watch her back.

Abruptly, uncomfortably, he said, "You think the Friends of Humanity are responsible for last night?"

She shrugged against him, burrowing deeper into the covers and against his skin. Her body was cool against his heat. "I don't really know," she admitted in a murmur. "When my sisters were taken and it looked like it had been the FoH, I was practically considered a martyr. Unintentionally, the—the kidnapping created an even bigger surge in the mutant rights movement. It was huge. Mendohls had just been taken on by the FoH and he fought the police every step of the way. The trial was hellish. I didn't sleep for weeks. Jocelyn and Margo thought they were going to have to hospitalize me for malnutrition and dehydration and—something else, I don't know, maybe exhaustion—it was stupid. I had—" Her voice cracked. "I had been saving money for years so I could help them go to college, and I spent every penny of it on detectives—you know—and there was nothing. The jury ended up acquitting the FoH and Medohls—that smug bastard—he just—" She broke off.

He wanted to tell her to get on with it, to spit it out. He'd seen mothers in anguish over their babies before—hell, he'd been the cause of it more times than he could count—but her pain made him twitchy, got under his skin. It wasn't—it wasn't _laughable. _It wasn't _pleasing. _It didn't make him feel _stronger_, or smug_. _

It made him feel _helpless,_ and that wasn't something he was used to. It made him wish he'd been around so he could have fucked up whoever'd done this in the first place.

He nipped her throat sharply. "Breathe," he ordered harshly. She wasn't crying, but he could tell she was struggling to form the words.

She shuddered against him, and he skated his hands across her, letting his claws drag just a little deeper so that blood beaded lightly on her flesh in some places.

He knew from experience that the judicious use of pain could anchor someone in reality when they were in danger of becoming incoherent. Still, he was careful.

She closed her eyes and drew a breath, seeming to melt under the faint scratches left by his talons. When she opened her dark eyes once more, they were focused, unblinking—hard and hollow. She spoke, and the words were toneless: a quiet report.

"Mendohl's closing argument revolved entirely around me being an unfit parent. He accused me of horrible things. Against my sisters. He asked—it was hellish. That's all. It was _hellish_. He came up to me after the trial and said something nasty about the girls, where they might be or what they might be doing—that they had probably run away to be rid of me, that they'd inevitably be better off, or something like that. I don't even remember what it was—all I know is it took four officers and Margo to pull me away. They had to lift me straight off the ground. I remember I was trying to run through the air at him, I was so—so singularly focused on getting to him and ripping out his goddamn spine, making him tell me where my sisters were."

He imagined it. He thought she'd have been a glorious sight, thrashing against four armed guards, brassy hair flying, more than a match for them. He thought of the book she'd read.

_One day, when the flower was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince: Let the tigers come with their claws! I am not afraid of tigers._

_Weak or not, I'm a fighter._

"Anyway, I—I kind of faded into the background after that—which I was totally okay with. I took on more individual cases, and focused more on street kids and runaways and missing persons. Nothing the FoH was too interested in. It—it was a coward's move, I know. But I don't care."

Her tone dared him to sneer at her. So he did. It was reflexive though, and he took no pleasure it watching the way her eyes fluttered closed, then open again. By the time she met his gaze again, the jeering smirk had faded, his eyes intense as he stared at her.

She went on, reluctant. "But, now, with me helping with the Bobby Roman case, and the FoH suddenly taking an interest in it—well, I'm sure Mendohls doesn't like me being there, and neither will the rest of them."

Creed lay silently, still staring into her face, his thoughts flickering back and forth. He thought of how resigned she'd seemed when she thought he was here to kill her that first day.

_They don't have enough people looking out for them._

He wondered if she was thinking of her sisters when she said that. Blaming herself.

Her comment to Mendohls: _I don't play with the Friends of Humanity anymore. They tend to take my things._

"Does it ever disgust you?" she asked after a moment, her voice quiet and resonating with a vacant, accepting kind of pain. "How weak I am?"

He struggled with the answer. His first instinct was to say _Yes, _both because her fragility infuriated him, and also because it was the cruel thing to say—and Creed was comfortable with cruelty. But he recognized that frustration and even rage were not the same as disgust—it was hard to think of a time when he might have been repulsed by her at all. He didn't think it had happened, surprisingly. In the rare, unguarded moments when he was honest with himself, he thought that his fury—at least lately—might have been born from an anxiety. He didn't know how to take care of frails, and she was so…damn…_delicate_.

To tell the entire truth, at the same time, he thought she was strong, stronger than any normal creature—and most mutants—that he'd met.

"Does it disgust you?" she asked again. For a second, he thought she might actually want him to say yes. That it might have been simpler for her, in some strange way. That punishment might have been easier to accept than kindness—if he had even known how to offer it. Still:

"No," he grunted, trying to make his voice rough and careless. He succeeded, even while thinking, _Not once, Valkyrie._

"Oh," she said quietly, and he knew this time he wasn't imagining the disappointment in her voice. "It disgusts me."

He growled low in his throat: a warning. He didn't know why and wasn't taking the time to examine it, but he didn't like to hear such things from her mouth. His bones felt hollow at the words, straining. His rage on her behalf was enough that he could have killed something, right then and there.

Hell, at this point, slaughter was probably the only thing that was going to calm him. His pulse was thudding and he felt on edge, like the times in the unit when they'd been in the wilderness way too long and he'd gone without a decent fuck _or _kill in weeks.

When she spoke again, the very quietness of the words cut through his rage. He thought he'd never heard a woman speak in this kind of stately, clear voice—certainly not while battling a nightmare. The words were dealt in such a hushed, agonized tone that it sounded like a recitation from a nightmare.

"I found a bloody fingernail by the door, where Natalie had grabbed the frame to keep from being pulled out." Each word was slow, measured. _"_I recognized it because it was cobalt blue," she said, "and I had painted her nails just before I left."

He stared at her beautiful face. The skin under her eyes looked bruised, and her lids looked heavy, like it was an effort to maintain eye contact instead of looking away, or crying. He'd killed kids before—their mothers followed shortly after. He saw how they wailed over their childrens' bodies. He thought of how he'd felt when Jimmy had walked out on him in combat years before, and what it was like to lose a brother you'd protected for years. He tried to reconcile those memories with the idea of October holding herself, leaning over her baby sister's blue fingernail. His gut wrenched in a way he hadn't felt for nearly a century, and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. The feeling was gone so quickly he wasn't sure it had ever happened, and would have denied it if he'd been asked anyway. Still: _yes_, he thought again, she _was_ strong—not just for a frail, but for anyone.

_You goin' soft, Creed?_ he heard Janey ask.

She didn't look away. She wouldn't. Instead she held his gaze, in spite of the recrimination and even mockery he knew she thought she saw there. Furious—at himself, at her, at the goddamn Friends of Humanity, at this whole fucking ridiculous mess—he crushed her against him.

"Whoever it was, I'm gonna take care of them," he growled, his mouth pressed into the crown of her head so hard that for a minute, his lip cut against his teeth and he tasted his own blood before it healed."No-one takes from my frail."

She laughed softly against him, a sad and disbelieving sound, and peppered his collarbone with kisses. The damp, ocean-scent of her tears stood out in the air, as if that moment of questionable kindness had released them, moreso that recounting the event itself. He leaned down to lap them from her face like a massive cat.

"I love you, Victor."

He froze, every muscle tense. _Love? _What the fuck? He suddenly imagined Jimmy and the Silverfox bitch, picking petunias and eating cotton candy. He didn't have time for that kind of sentimental _bullshit—_

"I don't love you," he said tightly, his voice low and dangerous, "and I won't." For a second, he hated himself and didn't know why. Along with the self-loathing came rage: he'd never doubted himself before, not since Jimmy left, and not for decades before that.

And _fuck her,_ for making him feel it. He should kill the little bitch where she lay, put her out of her misery.

He wasn't ready too, though. Not yet.

"I know."

The words were so quiet he wasn't sure he heard them.

"I'm not asking for anything," she added, as lightly as she could when her eyes still looked brutalized. "I don't need to hear it." She reached up a hand to pet the curve of his jaw with a soft, unassuming smile, her eyelids heavy with a kind of bone-deep weariness. He realized, suddenly, how very tired she must be. He knew from personal experience that frails like her weren't built to withstand that kind of tragedy, or to have a hunter like him come into their lives, tear things apart, run them ragged.

Certainly never both.

Silently, he pressed his mouth to her forehead. Her eyes closed and her smile grew softer in her drowsiness.

"Go to sleep, frail," he growled, his lips against her hair.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He was taking care of this. He had already decided as much, sometime in the night.

She may have hired detectives, but he was no detective. He was a _hunter,_ a tracker, a stalker. And when he had his sights set on something, nothing could dissuade him or get in his way. He imagined at least some of the people Toby had hired had been bought off when they got too close to the truth.

Not him.

He enjoyed his work as an assassin. His highly-paid and government-sanctioned kills had kept him living in style for years now. It had been a while since he'd picked his own targets—premeditatively anyway—but he was gonna get the bastards who took Toby's girls.

After all, he reasoned, they were _his_ girls, by extension. If they were hers, then they belonged to him, too. If they'd still been here when he'd met her—well, he probably would have been driven fucking _nuts_ by the raging estrogen in the tiny apartment. To be honest, he might have killed 'em himself, before.

But hell, he hadn't expected October to last this long, so maybe they would've grown on him too.

In a moment of clarity, he recognized that at this point, he might be slightly biased. He supposed it didn't _really _matter, since they were dead anyway, but October's things were his things, and no-one was to fuck with her but him.

And the FoH had _wrecked_her.

When he woke up the next morning she was already awake, sitting on the counter and swinging her legs, eating cereal and watching cartoons. She always preferred sitting on the counter, of course, but now she had no choice: he'd gotten rid of the shattered table for her, but she hadn't replaced it yet. He grinned at the memory, and then at the sight of her: her wild gold hair, her wide dark eyes.

His smirk was salted through with new knowledge: that she wasn't as carefree as she played off. That she had suffered, and suffered still. That she knew what it was like to be _irrevocably tied to a sibling_ who was entirely, frustratingly, infuriatingly _beyond your reach_.

She had been right when she said it before: _Weak or not, I'm a fighter._

The memory of the night before drove sharply into his mind, and he was swamped with frustration: not only his own, but at the anger and helplessness he knew she must be feeling too. In a moment of unthinking, unnameable desire--for sex, yes, but something else too--he lunged at her and wrapped his arms around her waist, flinging her over his shoulder.

She shrieked, milk splashing everywhere as she dumped the bowl on his head without thinking. He froze, stunned momentarily, and her peels of shocked laughter brought him back.

"I'm so—so sorry," she gasped out, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "Serves you right for sneaking up on me," she added when he growled in his throat.

"Think it's funny, d'you, frail?" he purred dangerously. She laughed again, wiggling on his shoulder, trying to get down. He shrugged, bringing one hand down sharply on her ass.

She yelped in surprise, arching off his shoulder at the stinging slap.

"Needed a shower anyway," he growled. "Think I'll take you with me. Punishment for this fuckin' mess." She gasped when he began striding down the hall. He could tell exactly when she realized he might be seriously angry: a twinge of fear trickled into her scent. She flailed then, and he thought it was funny, how she was careful not to hit him hard, and to avoid his face—as though she might hurt him. Funny, and endearing.

"S'right, little girl," he hissed, delighted. "_Fight_ me. Fight me hard."

She did then, a streak of real fear suddenly scenting the air, and her struggles became in earnest. She gasped and shoved against him, wriggling, kicking frantically. She brought one elbow down sharply on his spine, then thumped her fist down right at the small of his back, as far as she could reach. "Not gonna claw at me, frail?"

"I don't fight like a fucking _girl,"_ she spat back, snapping one elbow back and clocking him at the base of his skull. He shook it off, laughing, and grinned. She could definitely hold her own in a brawl with an average man. The thought left him a little more confident in her ability to protect herself.

Still, he thought when he got her away from here, he might teach her how to use a fuckin' gun.

"S'right," he said, as though just remembering. "You only scratch when you wanna get closer, don't you? When you wanna _rut._ Like an animal."

His grin widened when her arousal flooded the air at his crude language. He turned his head slightly, pressing his nose into her hip. At the same time, one tiny bare foot connected sharply with his kidney and would have dropped him if he'd been normal. As it was, he grunted, then chuckled.

"I like it when you fight," he purred. "'Specially when I know you want it. All that wriggling." He slapped his free hand over her ass again, making her flesh sting and grinning darkly when she popped an elbow against the nape of his neck in response.

When he pushed through the bathroom door and turned on the hot spray in the shower, he just tore her pants open and didn't even bother to take off the rest of her clothes before thrusting into her against the slippery shower wall.

"Damn frail," he growled, lifting her higher by her thighs as she gasped at how he filled her. Her wet feet found purchase on the back of his calves, still covered in wet denim. She used her leverage to drive him deeper, pressing and grinding against him, at the same time pushing against his chest. The heel of one palm struck sharply against his sternum.

He liked the way she was still fighting him even while trying to fuck him. It filled him with a kind of raw, animal gloating.

"Trying to get yourself off on me, frail? Doesn't work that way when you're in trouble."

"You're the one who attacked me," she panted. "You're the one—"

He snarled. "F'you're still talking, I'm not doing something right." His hands slid up to cut away her shirt as he anchored her against the wall with his hips, and when the top had been shredded out of his way he sought her breasts, virtually lifting her another couple inches in the air just by the handfuls of flesh. The action wrenched a strangled cry from her throat as he nipped both of her breasts, then plunged back into her.

He felt her tightening around him, her legs locking and growing taut as she rolled her hips against him. His claws slid down her sides and gripped her hips, abruptly lifting him off of her and pinning her against the cool tile as the steaming water poured down on them. She managed a choking mewl of displeasure when he held her suspended, hovering just over him.

"What?" he taunted savagely, gloating. "You want something, frail? I thought you were fighting me."

She let out a little animal-snarl of her own, obviously frustrated. Her hips twisted in midair, trying to gyrate closer, and he dodged a sharp head-butt when she didn't get what she wanted.

He gave a shout of laughter. "You cunning little bitch," he admired. "Say please, and maybe I'll give you what you want."

"Please," she panted furiously, exsperatedly, twisting in his grasp and struggling to impale herself.

He chuckled darkly, smugly. "Please _what?_ Tell the big bad man what you need, honey."

"Victor_—"_ She cut herself off with a sharp cry of wanting when he rubbed briefly against her folds. "Damn you!"

"Nah-ah, frail. This is punishment, remember? I don't like having bowl of cereal thrown all over me. I don't like being laughed at. Makes me look like an idiot." It was an excuse, of course. Anything to see how far he could push her. "You're gonna make it worse for yourself, f'you keep that up."

"Victor, please—I need—"

He leaned over, letting his mouth slide lingeringly over one nipple, rubbing his softly-furred cheek over her breast. "Need what, sugar? Tell me before I forget."

She was struggling to arch toward him, to get closer. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she tried to pull herself forward, then streaked downward. The faint red marks disappeared just an inch behind her fingers. "I need—_you—_goddammit—"

He smirked against her, enjoying this game. He had taunted victims like this before. The difference was that they were usually begging for death.

"Not good enough, sweetheart. Try again. A little more detail this time. Maybe a little nicer."

"I need you—inside me—_please—"_

He snickered and thrust his way inside her, slamming brutally against her. She cried out, arching against the tile wall.

"Listen to me, and listen good, frail," he ground out in her ear, slamming into her once more. Her hips thumped against the hard tile wall, and she used the momentum to rocket her hips back sharply against his. Neither of them noticed the bruising force which ricocheted through her little body. "You beg for _me. _You don't get to come for anyone but me, when I say. And there is no other man—_ever—_who can do to you what I do. All _this—"_ He ran his hands roughly over her slick body. "—It's all mine. You understand me?"

She clutched at him frantically, wordlessly, her expression frustrated and damning, and slammed back against him with almost as much force as he himself was using. He could feel her wrists locked behind his neck, her hands in tight little furious fists.

_Damn, but she's a little animal._

He withdrew again, threatening silently to leave her on the devastating brink of fulfillment. She bared her teeth at him and he barked a sharp laugh. _Sweet thing thinks she's scary._

"D'you understand me, kitten?"

"Only you," she agreed, her teeth clenched. "Please—Victor—only you, I swear—_fuck me—_"

He moved into her sleekly, rocking her against the tile. He could feel her tension building as he stroked in and out of her, her hips pistoning smoothly between the porcelain wall and his own jutting hipbones and muscles.

"Nah-ah, honey," he managed to grunt in her ear. "Didn't say you could come yet."

He was amazed when her body responded to that—that she was able to hold back. He ground against her, swirling his hip against hers and grinning even as his own muscles coiled and tightened. "Not yet," he purred at her. "Not yet, sugar."

"Damn you," she panted again, clutching at him, sinking her blunt human teeth into the muscle where his neck joined with his shoulder.

He roared then and slammed home even harder—if it was a fight for dominance she wanted, then for fuck's sake, he'd give it to her and _give it to her good and hard_. Between clenched teeth, he commanded, "_Now,_ frail," and emptied himself inside her with a bellow, slamming one clenched fist and forearm against the wall beside her when he came. Tile cracked like a spiderweb, chips of porcelain flying, but October obeyed, her body lifting off the wall as she arched, nearly forcing him back a step. He braced his forearm across the small of her back, hanging onto her as she rode out the crest of her climax. When she shuddered a final time, he brought his other arm from its place against the broken tile to sweep under her back, catching her as she collapsed.

"Jesus," he muttered against the top of her head, gathering her against his chest. "Aren't you the sweetest bit of pussy I ever had."

He set her down carefully, hanging onto her when her feet nearly slid out from under her.

"Be careful," he snapped, more alarmed than he liked to admit. "You're gonna crack your goddamn head open." With one arm, he eased her down into the bottom of the tub and yanked off her soaked pants, making her slide across the tub while she laughed. Her wet hair fanned about behind her, darkened and coiled with water. He slid out of his own wet jeans, opening the curtain to toss the drenched clothing into the sink.

The rest of their shower was lazy and hot. She'd wanted to get out, but when he'd noticed the scrapes on her hips from where she'd slammed into the tile, he'd insisted on her staying in the warm water in the hopes of alleviating some of the ache she was bound to feel later. She had scowled and said she was likely to fall asleep and drown herself, and somehow he'd found himself getting roped into staying in the bath with her.

By the end of the "argument"—which had involved a pleasing amount of begging and teasing on October' part, and an enjoyable amount of biting and fondling on his—he was folded in on himself, cramped in the bottom of the tub, but too content to move. His mouth had found a patch of skin behind her knee that had made her lash around so hard he'd had to stop, thinking she'd crack a bone on the porcelain tile. He felt like he usually did after a massacre: sated, languid. Ready for food and sleep. Both of his thick-muscled legs hung over the edge of the tub and he leaned back against the tile-covered wall. She was coiled around him in a tangle of slick, slender limbs, each sporting at least one new reddened bite—in many cases, more. So much for the bath easing her aches. Still, it excited him for what he would do to her in his own tub, in his own bed, once he got her out of here.

And he would get her out of here. He would hunt down whoever stole her sisters, and either get the brats back or at the least provide her with the closure she obviously needed. Then he would gut the motherfucker responsible for her pain in the slowest and most brutal way he could _imagine_.

And oh, he was very imaginative.

He figured he'd probably proved that over the last few weeks of fucking October in just about every way ever imagined—and some that had probably never been tried before.

Now, she was curled around and over him. Hot water pooled between them—most of it displaced onto the floor thanks to his mass. She drizzled some over his shoulders.

"I wish this tub were bigger," she murmured. "I could wash your back. Your hair." She ran a hand across his scalp and he closed his eyes under her touch, almost purring. For a moment, he entertained the image: the thought of a soft frail—_October_—sitting behind him in a tub of steaming water with her pretty legs around him, washing his back, her wet breasts pressed against him—well, it was enough to make him feel even more like a god than he usually did.

He eyed her sideways. "You should see my place," he rumbled.

She stroked a slim hand over his arm.

"The tub's fucking huge. We could both fit in it with room to move around." He paused, eyeing his own feet distastefully. "Instead of me looking like a fucking idiot like this."

She laughed and kissed his collarbone, her fingers stroking over the broad span of his body. "Has anyone ever told you—Mr Creed," she began, grinning up at him saucily, "that you are absolutely delicious?"

He growled involuntarily, watching her as she traced the sinews and tendons in his arms. "No."Almost unconsciously, he flexed under her hands, displaying the full girth of his muscles. 

_Showing off. _

Her eyes darted to his in amusement, and her smile grew wider, sweeter. "It's a shame. You are…an absolutely delicious, incredibly powerful man."

If her eyes hadn't been so sincere, he would have thought she was manipulating him. As it was, the words brought with them a surge of heat and savage smugness. His frail was right where he wanted her: doting on him, admiring him, impressed by his strength and speed and prowess. He realized somewhere, dimly, that while he'd always demanded his victims recognize his superiority, it had never manifested in this way before. A twinge of frustration leapt up in him; luckily, the playful heat in her eyes made him stop caring.

He climbed out as she reheated the tub, drying off roughly, sliding into a dry pair of jeans, and padding through the house to grab another beer. The milk and soggy Cheerios were still all on the floor—they'd both forgotten about them entirely.

He rolled his eyes. If he were home, he'd have someone to clean up this fucking mess for him. As it was, he could wait for her to do it her damn self, but the floor was getting sticky and she was roughed up pretty badly—

He growled and grabbed a damp washcloth off the faucet, throwing it on the floor and wiping up the mess with his foot. It seemed like most of the milk had gotten on him—the floor was cleaner than it looked.

After he'd slid into a dry pair of jeans he lounged against the bathroom door, drinking his beer and watching her with hooded eyes as she shaved her slender legs, taking special care around the fine bones in her ankles and the welts where he'd bitten her. She wasn't looking at him, but he could see the blush high in her cheekbones.

She might be a hellcat in bed—or against the showerwall, as the case may be—but she still turned red at the predatory heat in his eyes when he looked at her, even while she was doing something as simple as rinsing the soap off her lean calves. With her foot propped on the faucet like that, when she leaned forward, the smooth curve of her wet breast pressed against her thigh. She was mouthwatering, and Creed thought her self-consciousness was fascinating, too—entertaining. It gave him a little rush of adrenline-laden power.

"Poor little girl," he growled, his voice low and amused. "You've got no idea what you got yourself into, do you?" God, but he loved watching her. _It's all mine,_ he gloated silently, swirling his beer bottle lazily.

She blinked up at him, smiling bemusedly. Her eyes were open, guileless, and he suddenly wondered if she didn't know _exactly _what she'd gotten herself into—despite her mild embarrassment—and if she wasn't just that accepting of him and his savagery.

"I might have some clue," she said mildly.

Her words set off a flare at the base of his spine. She was easily the closest thing to a warrior-woman he'd ever met. Even with women like Janey, who were stronger and leaner and meaner, there was something in them that became bitter and hard. Not his frail. She went through the pain and the fight and kept going, open-armed and with a smile on her face. There were a few exceptions—like her not leaving this damn place—but he knew that she used her fights to make the changes she wanted in her life. She didn't let her pain master her. She was _stronger _than it. He thought back on their conversation the night before, and knew that any other man would have been tender with her this morning, coaxing, gentle. Not egging her into a fight and fucking her into the tile.

For a moment, he wished—_savagely, angrily, urgently—_that he was capable of giving her something sweeter than being roughed up against a shower wall.

Still, she wanted him anyway. He felt that strange tug in his bones again. She _wanted_ _him, _not in spite of his feral nature, but—at least in part—_because_ of it. She'd meant what she said the night before—he could tell by the way she was casting sideways glances out of the corners of her dark, pretty eyes, blushing as she soaped up the other leg—she wanted _all_ of him. It set off more flares and explosions at the base of his spine. He felt twitchy, re-energized, and watched her finish her legs carefully.

If it hadn't been such an enjoyable site to see, he might have been impatient.

As it was, the moment she set the razor aside, he plunked his bottle on the counter and reached into the tub, slinging her out of it and setting her on the sink, drying her carefully with a rough towel that lingered longer than strictly necessary on her nipples and thighs. Then he lifted her, bracing her against him with one broad forearm wrapped around her thighs as she held onto his shoulders, her breasts pressed against his face. She gasped, clutching him, and he grinned savagely, nipping at her and ducking as he moved through the doorways, not wanting her to hit her pretty head. Still, she leaned tight over him, clasping at his shoulder and head when they passed through the door frames, her breasts hot and slippery against his cheek. He tossed her down on the bed—gently, for him—and moved over her, running a liesurely hand up her smooth, damp legs. She shuddered at the sensation, wincing just slightly when he came across a bite or bruise. He was careful, _almost_ tender as he explored her, taking in the rough scrapes over her hips, the swollen nips at her wrists and the insides of her elbows.

His brow furrowed at the sight of her battered flesh, even if it had happened in the course of mutual pleasure. He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't sorry: he knew she'd liked it, that she enjoyed his roughness and his animal nature. But he thought of how, just a few nights back, he had almost hated her for the family he'd thought she had. He thought of her sisters again, and how she'd been almost as alone as he was the past few years. How her brats had been taken from her. What a tough little Valkyrie she was. And again, he knew his skills when it came to offering comfort were deplorable—he'd never had the time or patience or interest for it before—but he wanted to give her _something_.

"Poor frail," he growled, trying not to let his voice go soft. "You're all bruised up, aren't you?"

It took her a moment to answer. She was too busy staring at him, at the way his deft claws moved so lightly over her skin. "It-it's fine," she stammered, her eyes not leaving his hands as they swept over her. "It was good for me." Her eyes flicked briefly to his—he enjoyed the fact that she was so entranced by the sight of his hands on her body. "I—I needed something to fight."

He understood that—oh, _intimately._ She was his opposite in so many ways, but in others, they might as well have been the same person. She'd been grappling with ghosts for so long; sometimes you just needed something real to rail against.

He could do that. _Whatever it takes to make her mine,_ he reasoned.

Eyes burning on hers, he lowered his mouth, latching on to one of the inflamed bites on her calf. He knew they looked worse from the hot water she'd just been in, but he carefully laved the wound with his tongue. It was something instinctive—something he'd done when Jimmy had been hurt in the woods, or when his bone claws had stabbed through his skin before the healing factor kicked in.

Who was he kidding? This was nothing like Jimmy. With Jimmy, cleaning his wounds had been a brotherly necessity, a careful devotion based on that gut-deep sibling bond. With October, it became something—not necessarily sexual, but certainly _sensual_, and something he could give her when he didn't have much else to give.

After all, she wasn't one of Wilson's girls. Pretty jewelry just wasn't gonna work for her.

When he was done with that bite, he moved onto the next, sweeping his tongue over the scratches and teeth-marks on her inner thighs, her hip, the soft flesh of her sides and belly. She trembled when he brought his mouth over her heart, then her throat, her slim, pale arms. The attentiveness he showered on each wound left her feeling full of latent desire and something overwhelmingly tender. His slow movements lulled her. She understood, intinctively, that he was giving her something he had rarely given before, and that he was taking care of her the best way he knew.

When he slid over her and beside her, his hands stroking over her curves as he tucked her tightly against him, she began fading in and out. One hand reached up to caress his jaw drowsily, and he let it lay curled loosely against his throat when she dozed off.

For a moment, he stayed still, one hand coasting slowly over her till he reached her fragile wrist, the one against his neck. For a moment he lay there, tense, trying to discern the tanglement he felt at her curled fingers just over his jugular. The fact was, she couldn't hurt him if she tried—he knew that—but he'd never let another person's hands so close to his throat unless in the heat of battle or sex…which had often been the same thing, till her. He knew it didn't mean the same thing to her, but to him, a hand at the throat was a gesture of dominance.

For her, it was some kind of absurd sign of affection. And the confusing part was that some small bit of him enjoyed it, revelled in the ease and comfort with which she touched him. It warred with his feral instincts, which involved clawing her arm away from him, throwing her down to the hard wood floor, and showing her exactly who was in control.

Ideas of asserting his authority were cracked when she shivered a little and he moved—unthinkingy—to snag the blanket at the foot of the bed, dragging it over the two of them. Mind jittering at the mental conflict—which just kept growing, if he thought about it—he reached across to the endtable, hoping to distract himself. It ended up being the girlish book she'd read at the library a few weeks prior. _The Little Prince. _He flipped through, one-handed, and eyed the simple pictures critically, contemptuously, before landing on the chapter about the flowers.

Next to him, October shifted, fluttering awake slowly. "What are you reading?" she asked sleepily. She tucked herself in against him, her hair a hundred wet ropes against his arm. She began finger-combing it lazily, then tucking it into a braid.

He looked at her, then looked at the page, and handed it off to her. "You read it," he ordered, his voice lazy and demanding. Her lip twitched like she wanted to laugh at him, and he scowled. "Out loud."

It was an open smile then. "Chapter Nine," she read.

"The little prince believed that he would never want to return. But when he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the shelter of her glass globe, he realized that he was very close to tears.

"_Goodbye,_ he said to the flower. But she made no answer. _Goodbye,_ he said again. The flower coughed. But it was not because she had a cold.

"_I have been silly,_ she said to him, at last. _I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy . . ._

"He was surprised by this absence of reproaches. He stood there all bewildered, the glass globe held arrested in mid-air. He did not understand this quiet sweetness."

Victor studied her: the permanent tangle of her brassy hair, the bruise-like shadows in her cheeks and under her eyes. He thought again of the men who'd broken in, who'd wanted to leave her body shattered on the carpet. As if she hadn't had horrors enough already.

For a moment, his throat closed, and he furrowed his brows in irritation.

"_Of course I love you_, the flower said to him," she continued, not noticing his scowl, her head dipped toward the pages. _"It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That is of no importance. But you--you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy . . . Let the glass globe be. I don't want it any more._

"_But the wind--_

"_My cold is not so bad as all that . . . The cool night air will do me good. I am a flower._

"_But the animals--_

"_Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies--and the caterpillars--who will call upon me? You will be far away . . . As for the large animals--I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws. And, naïvely, she showed her four thorns."_

It was hard for him to swallow, and he didn't understand why. A growl rose in his throat. He only knew that there was that twitching in his bones again, like they were trying to knit together, but there was nothing to heal. October reached out with her free hand like a lily and combed it through his rapidly-drying hair, through the short fur that lined his jaw before curling her hand back in against her chest. He remembered his thought from the first time she'd read this book to him: _There is a woman who is not afraid of tigers._

Who does not back down to killer animals, or mutant assassins, or people who steal her family away.

_Weak or not, I'm a fighter._

He reached a decision then, rumbling a growl in his chest.

She was his, dammit. And till he got tired of her, he would be her claws.

"Then she added: _Don't linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!—_For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower…"

**A/N: OMG. Longest chapter I have EVER written. I debated splitting it into two parts but then the lineup would be all thrown off.**

**To make the most of the next chapter, I will remind you of a few liberties I have taken with this story, as mentioned in one of the first chapters. :)**

_**The Victor **_**takes place after **_**X3: The Last Stand**_**. I am operating under the assumption Sabertooth of X1 and Victor Creed of Origins are the same person (although obviously, the portrayal of Schreiber's Creed was far superior in just about every way). I am also operating under the asusmption that everything in X3 has happened exactly as portayed: that (spoilers?) Xavier has died, Storm has assumed control of the School for Gifted Youngsters (renamed the Institute for Higher Learning, in accordance with comic canon), and Wolvie (bless his heart) was forced to kill Phoenix in order to save the world—as well as what was left of the Jean Grey he loved (god only knows why; the woman had the personality of wet cardboard and wasn't remotely interesting till she started blowing shit up). I have taken the timeline just a tad further: the Institute has expanded under Storm's control, and Logan has somehow attained knowledge of his past. I don't know if he's actually regained the memories themselves or just found records or something; it really doesn't matter, and I'll leave that to another time (or another writer) to tell that story. **


	16. Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter V: The Supplicant, Part III**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Morning came, and he was leaning in the doorway under the touch of dawn, staring at her with narrowed eyes while she slept. Perhaps she wasn't as naïve as he thought; maybe she sensed his predator's glare—she stirred under his gaze, waking slowly.

"Mmmm," October murmured, stretching luxuriantly on the bed. She rotated her wrists and ankles, emitting the crackle he'd become familiar with. "I was definitely right. Delicious. Come back to me."

She opened her arms to him and he couldn't help but feel that savage swelling of pride and violent lust. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom in his jeans and a green sleeveless shirt that had to stretch to accommodate his massive frame.

"You should go back to sleep," he said, noting the bruise-colored shadows under her eyes. "It's still early."

Her smile was sleepy and sweet. "My, but what big arms you have, Mr Creed."

He straightened and moved toward her slowly, almost prowling. _Little girl wants to play, does she? _His smile was dangerous. _Don't bite off more than you can chew, frail. _

"The better to hold you down with, sugar."

Her smile grew wider, mischievous inspite of her drowsiness. "And what big claws you have."

He brushed his knuckles down the side of her face, playing along, letting her see the extended, discolored talons. "The better to tease you with," he rasped. The sound sent a slight, sleepy tremor down her spine, amplified when he raked his claws lightly over her throat and shoulder. Faint red marks rose beneath the fine, sharp points.

"What big…" she paused, her dark eyes twinkling up at him impishly, "_…teeth_ you have."

His eyes grew dark and he growled low in his throat, warningly. He was about two seconds from yanking the sheets from her body and slamming into her. But he'd seriously fucked her up in the shower the day before—well, not seriously, not compared to what he usually did to women, but enough that she was sporting more scrapes and bruises and bites than he was entirely happy with. He'd noticed, too, how easily she'd been bruised under him lately—even easier than normal. She was thinner, too: just a little, but enough so he'd noticed.

It wouldn't be easy for her to keep up with him.

He should have thought of it before. She was so responsive—half the time she initiated sex between them. But she hadn't been eating any better than she'd ever had before, and with the emotional gamut she'd been running for the last few weeks—between himself and the FoH—and the constant demands on her fragile little body…well, it was no wonder she was worn out as badly as she was.

He was going to get her out of this quaint little cage of hers. Feed her sweets and fresh fruit and red meat and shellfish. Have her nap naked in the sun on satin sheets. Plump her up. Let her sleep—at least eight hours a night. _Enough_ of these stupid frozen things nuked in the microwave and the little containers of yogurt. He was gonna put the meat back on her bones, add some potassium to her diet to keep her fragile skin from bruising quite so easily. He was gonna make sure she got some regular rest, so he didn't break her before he was ready.

Then he'd fuck her even harder to make up for it.

He ran the pads of his fingers down her face, careful not to knick her with his claws. He pressed her eyelids shut. "I've tired you out."

"A few times," she teased, keeping her eyes closed for him but lifting her mouth for a kiss.

His smile faded. He thought of Janey's words. _It's a fact of life._ "You need your rest."

"I need _you_," she protested.

Again, that rush of feral delight, and power.

"I'm going to see McQuay," he responded, changing the subject before he changed his mind and leapt on her. "You know he'll want to see you tonight."

She yawned, arching and popping the vertebrae in her back. The sheet slid down as she bowed upward, revealing the curve of one breast. Pale pink scratches—the shallow kind that would heal in less than a day—formed a net on the soft flesh, and a pink nipple just peeked from under the edge of the fabric. "S'it Thursday already, again?"

The musky, spicy scent of her arousal wafted over him and he dragged his gaze from the soft flesh up to her eyes. "Are you trying to seduce me, frail?" he purred after a moment.

She blushed, a wave of apprehension rising in the air as well. But she only murmured back, a little uncertain, "Is it working?"

He chuckled and smoothed her tangled brass-colored hair back. "I'll be uncomfortable for the rest of the fucking day, sugar," he growled. "But I'm not gonna fuck you now, however much I want to. Got business."

"A kiss before you go?" she pleaded prettily, opening her arms up to him again.

He leaned down to press his mouth to her forehead. Her hands traced his muscles.

"I didn't date a lot when I was younger," she murmured against his throat. "This might sound silly to a big man like you, but I think—I was too strong, in some ways, for a lot of the boys I knew."

He paused, still bent over her, as she ran her palms and fingers over the dips and bulges in his arms. He rememberd again how he had wondered at the status of her virginity—and she was certainly only raising more questions rather than answering any—but then he decided it didn't matter.

She was _his _now, regardless of what pathetic little boys may or may not have been before him.

"I was so used to taking care of myself, and then my sisters, and then myself again, even when things were at their worst. Most of the guys I knew didn't have any idea how to take care of _me._ They weren't—well, they weren't strong enough." She paused. "I used to think I was too busy—mourning my parents, preparing to get my sisters out of foster care, taking care of them. Trying to get them back. Fighting the system, I guess. Now, I think I was just waiting for you to find me."

"Sentimental shit," he grunted, but he was pleased and more than a little savage in the satisfaction he drew from her words. He kissed her again, roughly this time—a kiss of ownership, and _don't-you-forget-it _attitude—and left the apartment, locking the door behind him.

He hadn't been entirely lying: he _was_ going to see McQuay. The little fucker better be doing what he'd promised. Creed didn't want to have to kill him now and risk October being all whiny about it.

That was all the fuck she needed. A big fucking killer like himself crashes her apartment, threatens to inflict lasting bodily harm on her, virtually holding her hostage—fucks her a few times a day, on average, and then she gets her apartment broken into, possibly by the same motherfuckers who stole her sisters away—the fucking cowards. If he killed one of her only friends on top of that—well, it wouldn't go over well, he imagined.

And then, he reasoned, she wouldn't be so generous with her pussy.

When he entered McQuay's little office, the air smelled funny—apprehension, fear, and something oily. The second McQuay saw him, he slammed down the phone.

"I—wasn't expecting you today," he muttered nervously.

Creed eyed the little man suspiciously. His face looked like cheese, and sweat was seeping out of his pores. The room smelled rank. Something was off; something was wrong.

"What have you done?" he asked slowly, menacingly.

"N—nothing," the little man wheezed.

"You think I believe that?" Victor demanded, his voice cold and coiled. If the fucker had done something to fuck things up—

"I just was making some phone calls, I swear! I haven't written anything since—"

Creed eyed the phone suspiciously. He didn't believe for one second in McQuay's little innocent ploy, but he didn't have time for the little man's bullshit right now. He'd find out soon enough if the fragile mutant had done something stupid, and he'd burn that bridge when he came to it.

"Why you're trying to lie to me when I can _smell_ it on you is beyond me," he rumbled. His tone was mild—which McQuay understood, by now, was more threatening than if he'd roared. "But I'm here for more important things right now."

Fuck the mission. Victor Creed did what he wanted, and if meant delaying the government's agenda—well, they could suck it.

McQuay leaned back, rocking in his desk chair and gripping his cane defensively. "Wha—what do you want to know?"

Creed's grin faded. He strolled around the room, eyeing books and the decanter of bourbon that now sat on McQuay's shelf. He popped his neck, scowling, and then said:

"Tell me about what happened between the frail and the Friends of Humanity."

McQuay neary choked. "You mean Toby?'

"No, the other frail we both know," Creed shot back scathingly.

A little braver now—or more stupid—McQuay managed a faint sneer. "You've been _screwing_ that slut for a while now. Can't you even say her name?"

Victor was across the room in the blink of an eye. He pulled the punch at the last second, glancing his fist off McQuay's shoulder rather than hitting him full on in his pathetic, filthy mouth. Something cracked and the little man let out a keening wail, in spite of the fact that the blow had been mild by Creed's standards.

"Stop snivelling," Creed spat. "Sit up like a _man._ I know it's a lot to ask."

Cringing, cradling his injured shoulder, the weak mutant squirmed upright in his seat. Creed leaned over him threateningly, bracing himself with one hand on each of McQuay's armrests.

"You say you're her friend. You talk about her like you _love_ her," Victor said. Disgust dripped from the words like a tangible thing. "You don't know anything about her. You've had her in your life for _years,_ and the only things you see in her are the things you want to see. You're selfish, and greedy for her, and you don't deserve to _hear_ her name, much less speak it."

"And you do?" McQuay squeaked, his voice a rising whimper of pain and rage. "You deserve what _you_ have with her? And what—you're _not_ selfish? _You_, of all the people in this world, _do_ deserve her?"

Creed thought about snapping the man's neck. The little bird-bones would pop in his fingers like dry twigs.

"I _am_ selfish," he rumbled. "And I _don't_ deserve her." His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth in a savage grin. "Difference between you and me is, I'm willing to do whatever I have to in order to keep the things I want, even if I _don't_ deserve them."

"She deserves better than you."

"Yeah. She does. But I'm still the best thing she's got."

"You're a ruthless monster," McQuay bit out weakly, still clutching his damaged shoulder.

Victor licked his fangs and his smile widened. "Damn straight, little man, and don't you forget it. I don't hold back." He pushed away from the chair so hard that it rolled across the room and hit the bookshelf, knocking the whiskey to floor while McQuay howled at the jarring of his shoulder.

Creed frowned at the man's blubbering and sighed. "I s'pose you're gonna go to the hospital instead of coming to dinner with us tonight, huh?" he said, sounding almost regretful. Truth was, he liked to see October all dolled up for her night on the town, and he liked to provoke and bask in McQuay's jealousy and frustration.

"No," McQuay hissed stubbornly. "I'll be there."

Creed's eyebrows rose in impressed surprise. He hadn't been expecting that. "Your call," he said, and shrugged his massive shoulders once, carelessly, before drawing up a chair and straddling it. "Now, little man. Tell me what I want to know."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Dinner was stilted and awkward, and much less fun that Victor had expected. Toby had exclaimed over McQuay's sling, but when she asked what happened, he just chuckled weakly and said, "You know what a klutz I am, princess. I got caught in the metro doors this morning on the way to work."

She looked skeptical but didn't accuse him of lying, instead making sympathetic noises that got under Creed's skin a little, though he didn't let it show. The stench of nervousness and deception still hung around the little man and it was contagious, in a way. His edginess made Victor edgy: what _the fuck _was McQuay hiding?

"It's been a long day for you, hasn't it?" October was asking, all concerned, when Victor' head whipped up and to the left. His nostrils flared at the familiar scent, and he rose abruptly, his chair sailing backward in the process.

October's eyes flew to his. "Vic?" she asked, her voice small at the ferocity in his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders.

He turned, his coat flying, just as the door of the restaurant swung open. Diners stared at the four people silhouetted in the door: a beautiful, statuesque woman with café-colored skin and hair like milk, a young man with icy-blue eyes and a pretty face. A smaller, softer-looking woman with rich russet-brown hair streaked by white.

Finally, a bulky, pissed-off looking man with six gleaming claws sliding out from between his knuckles.

"Creed," the man with the shining blades growled. "Long time, no see. Still raping helpless women?"

"Jimmy," Victor acknowledged, his voice a low snarl.

October's dark eyes snapped back and forth between the two men: Jimmy and Victor.

"I see you've gotten your memories back, little brother." Creed grinned viciously. "Tell me, does it _hurt?"_

"Knowing I'm related to _you_, bub?" the smaller feral shot back. "_Hell_ yeah."

"We've come for the girl, Sabertooth," the white-haired woman said firmly, stepping forward.

"Wait—what girl?" October breathed. Her eyes swivelled slowly to McQuay's silvery gaze. "Oh, Dean," she whispered after a beat, her face filled with disappointment, and a kind of resigned betrayal. "You _didn't."_

A low growl started in Creed's chest and moved to his throat. The restaurant's other patrons were staring in horror and fear as the mutants faced off.

"We're here to save you, darlin'," James Howlett said, not taking his eyes off his big brother.

"I don't need to be saved!" She sounded exasperated.

"You'll have to go through me, first," Creed said evenly to his little brother, grinning. "And while I sure as hell don't give a flying fuck, I'm sure you don't want to risk—ah—collateral damage with all these innocent bystanders here, runt."

"There's always collateral damage when you're involved, Creed," the smaller feral snapped, and before anyone could draw a breath, he had rushed Victor and stabbed a fist at him, slicing through the tendons in the larger man's throat with his three metal talons.

October choked on a scream and was up out of her seat before McQuay could attempt to hold her back, but Creed turned, spraying blood from his throat and placing one flat palm on her belly, shoving her back into her chair so hard that she skittered back a couple feet.

His throat healed before her eyes, but before she could be grateful for it, Jimmy was back atop him, throwing punch after punch. The bigger man's head cracked backward on his neck, but then he sneered savagely and raked a huge claw down Jimmy's face before pouncing on him.

October was on her feet again, moving toward them, when she felt a smooth, leather-clad hand on her elbow. She whipped around, ready to clock whoever was holding her back, when she saw the brunette with the pale streak in her hair. The mutant was clearly only a girl—still in her late teens at most. She hadn't lost all of her babyfat yet. Her clear, bright eyes reminded October of her little sisters.

"You don't wanna do that, shugah," the girl said, tugging gently on her elbow. "Getting' between those boys in a rumble is like askin' for a sledgehammer to the face." She reached out gently and moved October's other hand from over her abdomen, carefully. October looked down at her, baffled, until the girl's dark head shot up with a look of pure confusion.

"She's fine, Storm," the brown-haired mutant called out. "Creed didn't cut her at _all_."

She had a southern drawl. A_tawll._

"Of course he didn't," October snapped, her temper flaring. "What the fuck is going on here?"

The little Southern girl blinked up at her, her mouth forming an "o" of surprise. "Ah—Storm?"

The white-haired woman breezed her way over, along with the blue-eyed boy. "You're all right, Ms Morgan?" she asked briskly, her voice regal and controlled.

"What," October hissed, "are you _doing?_ And will you call that goddamn ankle-biter _off_ my lover?"

The woman—Storm, Toby guessed—looked taken aback, and the young Southern girl looked at her male counterpart as though to say, _What is going on here? Has hell just frozen over?_

Also:

_Ankle-biter?_

"I think we should just let them wear each other out," the boy volunteered. His hair as carefully gelled back, his face earnest and sweet. "Rogue's right—it's really not a good idea to get between those two. Besides, um…I think it looks like they've both been starving for a good fight."

October eyed him witheringly. "Stop them."

"They won't kill each other, hon," Rogue interrupted.

October turned the power of her stare onto the younger woman. "Don't treat me like I don't understand these things." She glowered at all of them. "You came in here and ruined my dinner and fucked with my date," she added, not even flinching when the table next to them broke and the patrons scattered, screaming. "If the police come, he's going to gut them, and it'll be your fault. Now you better put it right."

Reluctantly, the older woman turned toward the two men, who were currently rolling on the ground. Creed was alternately snarling and whooping with laughter, saying, _Jimmy, you don't call, you don't write—_and Jimmy was obviously spitting-mad. Toby sighed. It looked like a more-violent version of a big brother good-naturedly pummeling his younger sibling.

Storm's elegant almond eyes suddenly blazed white, and a gust of wind tore the two men apart. Both of them strained against it—a comedy of flailing limbs—when the boy beside her knelt and touched the floor. Lacelike patterns of frost curled out over the floor and coiled, glinting, upward in clouds, gathering freezing the molecules of moisture already present in the air. The ice formed thick pillars around their feet and ankles, over their knees and up to their thighs—no easy feat, since they were both struggling wildly.

Finally, the stilled, both men breathing heavily and never taking their eyes off each other. The smaller man, Jimmy, was glaring red-hot hatred at his big brother, while Victor panted and grinned, not bothering to hide his brutal enjoyment of the brawl.

"Um," Rogue said, turning to the few remaining diners. "Y'all can probably go now."

They stumbled in clusters to the doors.

"You all right, girl?" Vic rumbled out after he caught his breath, still not taking his eyes from Jimmy.

October sat down heavily. "We should get out of here. The police will be coming."

Silence.

"I mean all of us," she added, glancing at Rogue surreptitiously from the corner of her eyes. "Do you boys think you can hold on to your raging testosterone so we can figure this out?"

"_I _can," Creed said crudely. "The runt doesn't have that problem. Not all of his manly-bits are fully functioning—"

Jimmy roared, straining against the ice casings on his legs. The frozen columns chipped and cracked. "Iceman, _lemmefuckingo!"_

The younger boy looked torn, but only bent to resolidify the ice.

"Logan, just hold on," Rogue said, looking nervous. "I don't think this is right—"

"We're taking this girl back to the Institute," Jimmy snapped at Victor. "Make sure you haven't done any _permanent damage_ to the poor darlin'_,_ keep her as far away from you as—"

For the first time since he'd seen his little brother, the bloodthirsty mirth faded from Victor's eyes, leaving only a quiet, simmering, predatory malice. "You—do _not_ touch my frail." A moment, and he jerked against his legs convulsively, then glared at the young man standing by Rogue, the one Jimmy had called _Iceman_. "You better let me go, kid."

"You're crazy if you think we'll let you touch her," Jimmy—Logan—intervened, his lip curled back in a vengeful sneer. "She's not yours anymore, Creed!"

Something almost panicky filtered through Victor's system, and with it came confusion. He wasn't used to this sense of dread and alarm. _"Let me go, boy!"_ he roared at Iceman.

The poor kid looked distraught, and October's heart went out to him. Then she felt a hand at her elbow—_again_—and looked at the white-haired woman next to her, who was gently trying to lead her away.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" she asked incredulously. "I'm not a _dog_."

"We're not letting you hurt her anymore, Creed," Jimmy was still growling. "We're not letting you—"

"I'm not hurting her," Creed rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. If he'd been within arm's reach of the smaller mutant, October had no doubt that Victor would have twisted his brother's head right off his neck.

"It's what you _do,_ remember?" Jimmy spat, disgusted. "You hurt people. You hurt women. You _like it."_

"I don't. Hurt. _Her_," Creed said slowly, clearly enunciating each word as though speaking to an extremely stupid four-year-old.

"Why should we trust you? Look at her! She's one big damn bruise! Why should we even let you _near_ that poor girl?"

Victor was in no mood to play. "Get out of my fucking way, runt, and let me go take care of my frail."

"Please, Creed," his little brother sneered. "Since when do you take care of your toys?"

Victor snarled. "I'm fucking taking care of this one, Jimmy. Now _back the hell off!"_

"_Why,"_ October hissed, "is nobody asking the goddamn girl in question?"

Silence.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

"This is how it's going to play out," October said quietly. Creed recognized her tone—it was the one she'd used on Mendohls in the courtroom. Full of pleasantry, with a shark's smile on her pretty face. He relaxed, grinning a little. The fuckin' _X-men _wouldn't know what hit 'em.

"I," she pointed delicately to herself, "am leaving with him. _First._ We'll meet you wherever you like two hours from now. Name your place."

"We can't let him go first," Storm broke in, her voice firm and controlled.

Creed snorted. The former "goddess" might know how to handle herself with elegance and poise, but she had nothing on a pissed-off October Morgan.

"You will," Toby said quietly, her voice even, her smile both polite and hard, daring the other woman to disagree. "I trust him. I don't have a single reason to trust you."

Storm took a step backward, momentarily stunned. _Trust? Sabertooth?_ The same man who had pinned her by her throat, leered down at her, and growled "scream for me" in the most lurid, obscene voice she'd ever heard?

"I don't understand—" the woman said, flustered for the first time in years.

Again, the tooth-baring smile. "Should I use smaller words?"

At that, Storm stilled, pulling her shoulders back and frowning at the blond woman. "It's your funeral," she said tightly, and gestured at Iceman. The boy held out a tight fist, staring at the rippling mountains of ice that had formed from the floor to halfway up the giant's thighs, and flicked his fingers outward sharply. The ice shattered like glass and floated away in tiny, chilled crystals.

"Where would you like us to meet you?"Toby said primly, looking at Storm.

Jimmy was watching her with narrowed eyes and Creed bared his teeth possessively at the younger man before loping toward October. He feigned attacking her, every movement exaggerated and dramatized, just to see what Jimmy would do.

"There's a branch of the Institute just a few miles out of town," Storm said after a moment.

The runt didn't disappoint. With his face almost purple with rage, he struggled once more against the ice encasements.

"That doesn't sound like neutral territory," Toby replied, a trace of genuine amusement in her voice.

The woman's eyes, already flinty, grew even harder. "We won't risk innocent lives with a murderer like Creed."

Toby's lips twitched—not in laughter, but in thoughtfulness. She cast a sideways glare up at Creed, who was still matching gazes with Jimmy, taunting him silently.

"Fair enough," she said after a moment, her voice mild. "Oh, and—bring _him,"_ she added, gesturing to McQuay as she took Victor's arm. "You might want to ask him some more questions while you're waiting for us. You know, instead of blindly sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong." Her tone was playful, but the words clearly weren't.

The silver-eyed mutant, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, now found the courage to talk. "You're letting her just—leave with him?"

"It's obviously what she wants," Storm said quietly, not bothering to hide the disapproval in her tone. She was surprised, therefore, when October flashed her a sharp look and then raised her chin in a nod of respect.

"We'll see you shortly," Toby said. "I suggest getting out of here quick. The police are almost here."

Without waiting for anything further, Victor scooped her up in his arms and took off out the back door of the restaurant, grinning savagely the entire way.

Oh, it was _good _to be brawling again.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: Find the paragraph with five f-bombs, and win a cookie. ;)**

**As an aside: it was suggested to me that I write some ficlets regarding some of the original characters (Jane, Bobby Roman, etc) in this fanfic. I'm thinking of a series of one-shots that both tell the individual characters' stories and reflect on the October/Creed….uh, **_**thing. **_**Anyone with me?**

**As another side:**

**I would gladly pay good money to see Victor Creed duke it out with Buffy the Vampire Slayer (of Season Seven television fame). Granted, Creed would end her (after all, he can't really die), but not before a great fight sequence and a lot of witty repartee. Can you hear it now?**

**Buffy:** I'm not afraid of dying, big guy.  
**Creed:** How would you know? You've never tried it before.

**Buffy:** Um, actually, been there—done that. Twice, as a matter of fact.

**And…your preview to upcoming chapters…**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part I: A verbal bitch-slapping battle between the good guys and the…well… morally ambiguous guys. October gets "warned off" Creed. Three guesses as to whether or not she listens. Also: more awesome family dynamics, a verbal slap-down for our favorite Creed-character-foil, and more unresolved sexual tension!**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part II: Random stupid female nonsense from October. Creed establishes his self-designated role as her protector, and attempts to justify his feelings with a socially-unacceptable rationale to meaningful interpersonal relationships (because underneath it all he's a big pussy who hides from his feelings). Logan is conflicted. SMUT (explicit and implied). A mushy conversation.**


	17. Chapter VI: The Killer, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part I**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"I can't believe we're goin' in there," Victor grumbled, staring through the front gates of the school. "The only reason I'm doing this is for another chance to sink my teeth into Jimmy's neck." A pause. "And maybe kill your friend."

Since Xavier's death a few years back and Storm's subsequent authority in the school, the institute—formerly known as the School for Gifted Youngsters—had expanded. Now called Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, there were branches sprinkled throughout the States. Though famous, the true purpose of the school had been kept discreet, and even October hadn't been aware that it was a school and shelter for young mutants. Now, seeing the array of children and young adults lined up at the gate, watching them suspiciously as they entered, Toby thought it was one of the most perfect things she'd ever seen.

She tugged on his arm. "I don't blame them for not wanting you and Jimmy brawling in public." When he glowered—almost sulking, she thought with a twinge of humor—she added, "They can't handle you on their own, you know."

He _knew _she was playing him, but his glower faded into a smug expression anyway. She rubbed her cheek into his upper arm, smiling as they approached the building, the eyes of the young mutants still on them. She could feel Victor stiffen as they drew closer, and a rolling growl started in his chest by the time they reached the steps up to the main entrance. Storm was there, still in her suit, but Jimmy had traded in his uniform for a pristine wifebeater and dark jeans. The girl called Rogue was in casual clothes, still sporting her long gloves, and Iceman stood behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders, careful not to touch her skin. In the shadows, looking shaken, stood Dean McQuay.

"Let's talk," Storm said abruptly, stepping forward. "Inside."

Once in, and closed off from the younger mutants outside, the woman rolled her shoulders and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"It seems we were misinformed when we came here," she admitted after a moment. "Our informant" –she shot a surprisingly dirty glare at McQuay— "led us to believe you were being held against your will, Ms Morgan."

October tilted her head, taking in the woman's strained stance. "Call me Toby," she said after a moment. "Everyone does."

Storm looked at her sharply. "Not that we are supporting the current position you're placing yourself in—_Ms Morgan_. What you're doing—with Sabertooth—is dangerous."

Toby looked up at Creed, bemused, and the man bared his fangs in a grin. "She's probably right," he admitted, leering down at her. He could hear Jimmy's heartrate increase, and it made him grin.

"Mm," the blond acknowledged, looking at the white-haired woman with a completely unimpressed expression. She turned to face the rest of them. "He looks out for me."

"He won't be looking out for you for long, darlin,'" Jimmy said quietly. "I've seen how he is with women. You're lucky you lived through the first—" He broke off, and October saw the little brother Victor had talked about. Modest, less crude than his older sibling, even if he was every inch a killer as well.

"Are you aware," Storm said resignedly, as though she already knew the answer, "that Mr Creed is an assassin, a war criminal, and a rapist?"

October hesitated. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I also know he probably saved my life when two men broke into my apartment the other day."

Silence.

Then: "Have you ever heard of Stockholm's Syndrome, Ms Morgan?"

It was a wrong move. The smaller woman's smile turned biting. "A psychological response seen in abductees," October said icily. "The hostage shows signs of loyalty to their victimizer. The phenomenon is named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery in Stockholm in '73. Bank employees were held for six days and became emotionally attached to their captors, even defending them afterward. I believe the phrase was coined by Nils—Bejerot? Berejot?—who helped the police during the case. Some psychoanalysts believe it's a defense mechanism developed during infancy, with the goal being to create a bond with nearest and most powerful adult in order to maximize the probability that the adult will enable—and actively support—their survival." Her smile was positively wintry. "Don't patronize me, if you please."

Storm eyed her. "Just because you have a clear understanding of the concept doesn't mean you're immune to it," she said quietly.

"I wrote a list earlier today," October mused, seeming to ignore the question—but Creed recognized her courtroom voice, "of reasons why I am with this man." She raised an eyebrow. "I got to sixty-eight before I was forced to stop and get ready for dinner tonight—which, incidentally, I still haven't had a chance to eat. Interestingly enough, him being able to _kill me_ wasn't anywhere on the list."

God, she was a tough, scrappy little thing. Victor felt a surge of pride and couldn't help but grin, carefully turning his gaze away from her and trying to look disinterested and bored.

"The fact that you know that he can kill you still affects you psychologically," Storm said. Then, seeming to make up her mind, she softened. Real emotion flooded her eyes and she took October by the elbow, leading her a few feet away. "If you're afraid—"

Toby looked like she wanted to laugh, but swallowed it instead, her hand covering Storm's on her arm. With infinite gentleness and mild reproach, she asked, "What could I possibly be afraid of with him looking out for me?"

Victor wanted to fuck her brains out and lick her everywhere, all at once. He was also on alert. Couldn't have these motherfuckers thinking he'd gone soft. He'd have to do something before he left so they _remembered _exactly who and what he was. Maybe catch her alone for a minute, bite her lip, make her bleed just a bit. Jimmy would smell the fresh blood—along with her arousal—and he'd _know _Victor Creed was just as much an animal as ever, and not someone to be trifled with.

Kindly, October said to Storm, "One of the ultimate outcomes of Stockholm's is that the victim comes to believe that—well, for lack of a better phrase—'resistance is futile.' Well, I've resisted Victor on a few ocassions—probably in a lot of ways he isn't used to at all—and hey, look! Still alive."

"You're covered in bruises," the pale-haired woman accused.

A coy little smile played at the corner of October's mouth. "I assure you, it was a –ah, a great _pleasure_—getting each and every one of these."

Storm flushed, her mouth snapping shut. And then, throwing them all for a loop, October held out a hand to Rogue, gesturing her over. "I'd like to talk to you both about a kid I'm working with, actually. I'd love to see him enrolled in a school like this. He's brilliant…"

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Silence after the three women left. The kid called Iceman massaged the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable and pained. Jimmy was seething, fists clenched, clearly having hard time restraining himself from starting another fight.

_Do it, Jimmy, do it, _Creed thought, almost rocking on his toes with anticipation and bloodlust. _Throw a punch, runt._ If he didn't, Creed was likely to take his rage and boredom out on McQuay, and as pissed as Toby was, he didn't think it would go over well.

Then Iceman's voice, bewildered:

"Does she always do that?"

Creed raised an eyebrow, stilling for a moment.

"Change the topic so fast. I feel like I just got whiplash."

Without thinking, Victor barked a laugh, some of tension draining away. "All the goddamn time."

Jimmy looked up at him sharply, still ready to fight but now with something quizzical in his eyes, like he couldn't quite place him. "What the hell's wrong with you, Creed?"

Creed rolled his eyes. "Other than this motherfucker?" he asked, jabbing a thumb at McQuay, who was all but cowering against his cane in the corner. "Nothin'." He paused, then conceded, "I been a little cooped up in her little apartment…I need a good brawl, Jimmy." He grinned. "Wanna oblige me, little brother?"

"Don't tempt me, bub," Jimmy hissed. "I don't know what you've done to that poor girl, but if I have to talk to you much longer I'm gonna rip your goddamn throat out." A pause. _"Again."_

Creed grinned. "Aw, c'mon, Jimmy. We haven't spoken in _so _long."

The younger man clenched his jaw. His temples twitched. The veins in his arms bulged. "You always did like the sound of your own voice, Creed."

The kid called Iceman looked uncomfortable and slipped quickly and quietly through a door on the left, obviously trying to get away from any possible explosions.

Creed snickered, opening his mouth to see what other buttons he could press. A thought struck him suddenly, solidly, interrupting his own smart-ass comments. "Hey." His eyes narrowed as he looked at the other feral. "I got something you can help me with, little brother."

Jimmy's eyes hardened at the reminder of their entangled bloodlines. His nostrils flared. "What the hell do you think I would _ever _wanna help you with?"

Victor grinned, baring his teeth in savage anticipation, _knowing _how little it took to win Jimmy over. Toying with him, playing him.

He wagged his eyebrows at his little brother mockingly. "I'm gonna save a girl, Jimmy-boy."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"We'll contact him immediately," Ororo said kindly. Somewhere in their conversation, they had taken to using more familiar terms.

Marie looked positively ecstatic. "He's lucky to have someone like you in his corner, Toby," the girl gushed, her Southern drawl amost lost in her own excitement. She was gripping October's hand as though afraid the blond woman would disappear.

"Are you sure you can afford this if the Romans won't pay?" the weather witch asked, closing the file and looking mildly concerned. "We do have scholarships and grants for gifted children whose guardians can't or—ah—won't pay the fee. We have to in order to do the work we do, to take in the runaways and refugees."

"I'm sure," October said firmly, tightening her own hand in Marie's. "I haven't—I spent a lot of money a few years back, but since then, it's just been slowly accummulating in my bank account. I don't get paid a lot, but it's more than enough for my lifestyle. Let me pay, and use your grants for a kid who can't."

"And what about—" Ororo paused delicately, "—Mr Creed's, ah, _impact_ on your financial status?"

"It's not a concern," October replied confidently. "He takes care of himself."

Ororo tilted her head and opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. Standing behind the desk, she extended a hand to Toby. "It has been—surprisingly—a true pleasure, Ms Morgan. You have…_all_ of my deepest respect."

Toby ducked out of the office as Marie began chattering loudly, then started when she almost ran right into Jimmy.

"Oh—hello, Mr Howlett," she said, unabashed, extending a hand to shake his. "Or—do you prefer Jimmy…?"

The man growled. He was still massive, larger than October, but small by comparison to his brother. "Don't call me that. I'm not that anymore. For a long time, I didn't even know I'd ever been called that." He scowled. "I left that name behind with _him_."

Creed.

Toby bit her lip, uncertain, and wounded on Victor's behalf—_though he certainly wouldn't appreciate it, _she thought after a moment with a slight smile.

The little man softened at her expression. "The name's Logan."

She gazed at him for a moment, straight in the eyes. He was surprised—people didn't usually do that. Some primitive part of them sensed the predator within him, and they never met his gaze so directly, not without having known him for a long time.

After a moment, she said, "Is this the part where you tell me how dangerous he is?"

"He _is_ dangerous, darlin'."

"Do you think that just slipped my notice over the last few weeks?"

He was silent. "Nobody here wants to see you hurt," he said after a moment.

She tilted her head. "Is it fair for you to judge him so harshly?" she questioned, her voice gentler than the words.

Logan's eyes clouded. "I've seen him rape girls no older than sixteen," he growled, "and leave their guts on the floor so they hafta crawl through it, dying."

She bit her lip, jarred by the mental image, but pressed on. "I'm not saying he hasn't done evil things," she said quietly, almost sympathetically. "But is it fair for _you_ to judge him? I think—the part of you that's good and kind and feels compassion—you can afford to have that because of what he gave up for you when you were younger." She shrugged and stretched a hand out to Logan's shoulder, touching him gently. "You two will never be friends again. There's too much—_rottenness_—between you. But I think it's something you should—think about." A pause. "If the roles were reversed, and you had to kill again and again to keep your little brother safe—who's to say you wouldn't be him?"

She could tell the feral man was fuming at the very idea, but she could also see she'd left a seed there. And regardless of what others might think, she could see that Jimmy Howlett, now Logan, was a thinker. Stupid men didn't find ways to seek out their histories and reflect on their own pasts. He would think on it, and maybe—decades down the road—he and Victor would be able to be in each other's presence again without wanting to rip each other apart.

Maybe.

She stood on tip-toe and pressed a chaste, sisterly kiss on his forehead—_ironic_, the smaller feral thought—before squeezing his shoulder and walking past.

When she turned the next corner, Victor was there, catching her around the wrist and pulling her into an alcove, drawing her hand up to his mouth to nip and suckle her fingers.

"What are you doing?" she laughed in a stage-whisper, then gasped when he drew blood from the pad of one small fingertip.

"Getting the smell of that runt off you," he muttered fiercely. She realized it was the hand she'd touched Jimmy—Logan—with. His grip tightened on her wrists with bruising force and she let out a mew of pain when the bones ground together. Surprised, he grunted and loosened his hold. _You goin' soft, Creed?_

"Don't fucking touch that little bastard again," he said warningly, but he recognized the sound of petulence in his own voice. _Dammit._

Her brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to protest. "Don't be—he's your _brother,_ for God's sake. I'm not gonna—ew."

He barked a sharp, triumphant laugh and tilted her head back with one claw-tipped hand, devouring her mouth and biting both lips.

Instinctively, she swept her tongue into his mouth, pricking her tongue on his fangs and letting her blood flavor his mouth. He growled with the taste of her submission. "Don't start somethin' you don't want to finish here, frail."

"Did you hear what I said to him?" she asked, worried, when he let her breathe again. He coud smell she was a little afraid: worried she'd stepped over the line. He debated playing on that fear, but her arousal was just too delicious at the moment.

Instead, he nodded, wiping some of her blood from his lip with a taloned thumb, then licking it. He was high: on adrenaline, on seeing Jimmy, on fighting Jimmy, on talking to Jimmy just like in the old days. On her: the smell of her, the taste of her, the way she gave herself over to him, _happily. _"Yeah. Same thing I've been telling him for decades: he's an animal, just like me."

She snorted. "Not just like you." She reached her arms up and he leaned over so she could wrap them around his neck. "You're the best kind of animal there is," she murmured, and he growled into her throat, rubbing his furred cheek on her neck. Her knees quivered, but she stayed standing despite his ministrations. He grinned: feral and gleeful at the power he had, rushing on it.

"How come he didn't know you were here?" she asked after a moment, resting against his chest as he leaned back against the wall, his claws snagged loosely on the fabric at her waist.

Victor grinned, looking extremely smug. "I'm guessing it's 'cause you were so covered in the smell of me, he didn't notice when I was on the other side of the wall."

She blushed and looked horrified. "He could smell—that? You? On me?"

Creed's grin widened down at her. "Aw, frail, didn't you know that?" He lowered his voice. "That I can smell you? When you're all…hot n' bothered." He dropped his head and drew his tongue lingeringly over her throat. "Does it make you nervous?" he purred. "I can smell how wet your panties are. _Right. Now."_ He gloated. "You want me inside you. You want me fucking your sweet pink pussy _raw."_

She was blushing so hard she could feel the heat in her throat and he grinned appreciately down at her hint of cleavage. "Does that pretty red go all the way down to your tits, frail? I haven't even tried to make you blush yet. I think I will when we get home." Then, thoughtfully: "Yeah, I'm going to screw you silly_._ You won't even know what you're begging for by the time I'm done with you."He pulled her tighter against him. "Fer fuck's sake, frail, I'm gonna make you _suffer."_

Her breath hitched and she followed the dark line of his gaze down to her own breasts, then blushed even harder, looking back up at him.

"You're fucking _drenched,_ wanting me so hard, aren't you, kitten?" He barked a short, sharp, triumphant laugh.

With a jolt, she realized he was intentionally teasing her, goading her. "That's not entirely fair," she protested weakly. It seemed a standard line with him. "You're—and I can't—"

"Can't what, sugar?" he purred. "F'you're that desperate, I can bend you over right here…"

She gulped, then froze when he dragged a claw up the backside of her thigh, sweeping under her skirt. The sharp nails grazed over her panties. "I don't drive you crazy!" she gasped out.

He sneered down at her. "I seem to recall a certain frail trying to seduce me just this morning," he pointed out menacingly. His grin widened as he echoed her _Little Red Riding Hood_ act from just hours earlier. "My, frail, what a sweetcunt you have."

"That's—I didn't—not like this," she gasped. Randomly: "This is _so_ inappropriate behavior in a school—" Suddenly, she stilled. "Oh God—are you just doing this to prove something to _him?"_

_Jimmy. _He paused, then dragged her up a bit, bending his knee so he could pull her onto it, straddling his thigh. Her dress rode up on her legs. He tilted his head at her. "Yes," he said. It wasn't entirely true, but he wanted to test her reaction.

She didn't disappoint. She looked crestfallen. He ran his tongue thoughtfully over his incisors. He didn't have to explain shit.

"Forget about Jimmy," he ordered, his voice hardening. "He doesn't matter." He lowered his voice to a purr. "I'm gonna take you away with me when I go."

It was another test.

She froze, as he'd expected. "I'm not leaving my apartment." Her voice sounded uncertain this time, though. He relished in it.

"I'm gonna take you to my penthouse," he murmured, ignoring her protest. Every word was delivered in a low growl: a threat, a warning. "Then I'm gonna fuck you. Anytime I want, anywhere I want."

Her scent was mouthwatering. She was trembling. He wanted to let her loose, let her run, chase her. Hunt her down.

"I'm going to fuck you on the kitchen counter. I'm going to fuck you on the stairs and in the hall outside the suite, where anyone can see. I'm going to fuck you against the windows with your pretty tits pressed against the glass. I'm gonna fuck you on your back. And from behind. And on my lap."

She blushed and looked away, wetting her lips, her eyes heavy with desire.

He grinned, lowered his voice. "And on your _knees."_

Her face was crimson, her lips glistening. Her scent was so musky he almost couldn't restrain himself. Dammitall to hell, if she wasn't a _sweet_ little piece of ass. He thought about making her come now anyway, letting the aroma of it pervade the hall.

"That's my girl," he purred, rubbing a cheek on her throat. He rocked his thigh between her legs, making her gasp, then stopped. Jimmy would be able to smell her excitement anyway, and it would be more fun to taunt her later.

"I've been wanting you since you left this morning," she confessed after a moment, shifting uncomfortably.

He smirked at her. "That's what you get for teasing," he mocked, lifting her off his bent knee and placing her back on her own two feet. When she wobbled, he looped an arm around her, smirking.

"You're a very bad man, Mr Creed," she said after a moment.

"I'll remind you of that later," he purred in her ear.

When they got to the foyer, the others were waiting. Logan's nostrils flared and he glanced at the two of them sharply. Blood, and unfulfilled sex. October flushed, and so did he, both of them looking away. Creed chuckled darkly while the other mutants stared between the three of them, confused.

"You okay, Logan?" Iceman—_Another Bobby,_ October recalled—asked. "You look—seriously disturbed."

"I _am_ seriously disturbed," the feral mutant said, sounding nauseous.

Collecting herself, Toby offered a smile—a genuine one, this time—to the assembled group. "Thank you all for your…_concern_. I'll be keeping in touch, especially with Bobby Roman potentially coming to school here," she added.

"Wait," said a shaking voice. From the corner, McQuay rose, trembling, gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles were white. "You're not still going with him, are you? After what all these people have told you?"

The other mutants, with the exception of Logan, suddenly looked uncomfortable. Bobby and Marie backed away before waving a hesitant goodbye and slipping through a doorway to another room. Storm stepped back into the shadows, watching but saying nothing.

October's face had gone weary, and Victor bit back a growl. "Dean, don't. I don't even want to _talk_ to you right now. Not in front of everyone. Maybe in a couple days—"

McQuay was furious. "Toby! For god's sake! You _can't_ still want to go with him—"

She cut him off by turning away, walking toward the massive doors of the mansion. Victor grinned at the losing man, pulled a mock-sympathetic face, and turned to follow her.

"He'll kill you! He'll rape you and leave you to rot in your own blood and severed limbs and—and _shit_—"

"You," Toby said, whirling, pointing at McQuay. Her finger shook with the force of her fury. "You—don't. Don't talk to me. I'd clock you if I weren't afraid of breaking your face."

Ignoring her words, McQuay limped toward her, his voice pleading now. "Don't do this, princess. You don't see how he's using you or what he's doing to you."

"I'm seeing more clearly than ever, Dean," she snapped, lowering her hand and glowering at him. Her expression was a mixture of betrayal and hurt and fury.

"I can't…_humor_ you anymore, princess! You're living in a fantasy—!"

The air went still. Victor thought the only person in the room who was still breathing was McQuay, still pressing forward, ignorant of his own idiocy. Creed hadn't spent a lot of time in the last century learning how to get along with the "gentler sex"—he didn't generally care—but he had a feeling that patronizing them wasn't on the list of _Top Ten Ways to Win Her Over._

Still, the silver-eyed man advanced, gazing down at October earnestly. "Do you know what he told me, Toby? He said he _knew_ he didn't deserve you, but that he'd do whatever he had to keep you."

The blonde stared at him.

"Are you stupid?"

McQuay was aghast. "What?"

"I said, _are you stupid?"_

"Toby—no! God, what is _wrong_ with you?"

She shook her head, turning away when he reached for her. "Don't touch me, Dean."

His face crumbled into something ugly. "I love you! I _love _you! How can you let that _animal_ touch you when you won't even—Tell me, _princess,_ what does it _take_ to get between your dimpled thighs?"

For a second, Creed thought he was going to rip the motherfucker's head off. He saw it clearly in his mind's eye: how he'd grab the little shit by the roof of his filthy mouth and rip the whole swollen skull right off his fuckin' brainstem.

October's hand, tightening on his arm, held him in check, but he shook her off. He'd hold himself steady, but he wasn't a fucking domesticated cat. Baring his fangs in silence, he watched as she whirled back to McQuay.

"You only see what you want to see! Do you even know what he meant?" Her lip curled in something between pity and revulsion—and more than a little regret, too. "Obviously not. How could you _ever_ understand?"

McQuay ignored her question entirely, focusing on what he could do to salvage control of the situation. Of her. "Thank _God_ your sisters are gone. It would have been a shame to have them see the example their big sister is setting. Disgraceful. _Sluttish_. They're better off _dead _than with you."

For Victor, the room seemed to go silent. He realized later that it hadn't—not really. He'd just blocked it out the way he'd done in battle sometimes, his eyes zeroing in on the pulsepoint in McQuay's temple.

Motherfucker's head was big enough. Made an easy target.

He was almost on the little man when Jimmy caught him around the waist, slamming him to the floor. For a split-second, they rolled, and Creed was so ready for a fight he didn't even _care—_but then Jimmy's voice, so low only he could hear it:

"Don't you pull this shit now, you asshole. That darlin' girl does not need to see how big of a dick you can be. Not like this."

A pause. They panted, even while McQuay—idiot that he was—continued to advance on October.

"She still cares for the kid," Jimmy ground out after a moment. "Don't fuck this up, you big shithead. This is one of the battles she needs to fight on her own."

Creed shoved Jimmy off him and bounded to his feet_—"Get the fuck offa me, Jimmy, you puss"—_rocking on his toes and ready to pounce if McQuay tried to put his cane to her again, like he had in the restaurant. The memory of it alone made his blood run cold, made him want to snap all the bones in the little fucker's body.

"To think they'd have been raised by such a _whore—"_

Imperiously, with complete poise, October said coldly: "You're not Mendohls, Dean. Stop acting like him."

The McQuay kid looked like he'd been kicked in the stomach. Unfortunately, it was only for a moment. Then his face turned purple with rage. For a minute, his mouth worked furiously, but nothing came out. Creed figured that comparing the anarchist, pro-mutant activist to the greasy FoH attourney—a leader in the war against mutantkind—was enough to make the little shit have an aneurysm. He grinned, a manic, furious sort of snarl: he was always floored by the way October could cut a man's legs out from under him, just by the tone of her voice, but it didn't mean he wanted to let the little fucker go without some battle wounds to remember her by.

_Can I kill him yet? Can I just rip his goddamn motherfucking head off yet? Use his eye sockets for finger-holes and go bowling with the motherfucker?_ He imagined the way the big silver orbs would pop when he dug his claws in. Would the vitreous fluid look like mercury?

"Good," Toby said mildly. "Now that everyone is thoroughly embarassed and uncomfortable, I just want to go home." She paused, then added pointedly, "With Victor, if he wants." She turned dark eyes up to him and he saw the stillness in her, that warrior-façade of calculated calm that he'd seen in the courtroom. There was hurt leaking in at the edges.

Then she lifted her chin on her delicate neck, turned on her heel, and walked regally away.

He might have hesitated a moment, if he'd thought about it. He still wanted to twist McQuay's enormous head backward on his skinny little neck. Instead, instinctively, he followed immediately.

On the grand scale of things, October was a priority.

McQuay was not.

Grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he moved toward her, catching McQuay's eyes with a savage little sneer. _The hits just keep on coming, boy-o. _He was on another adrenaline rush, wanting a brawl, a kill, a fuck.

Victor'd never been one for porn—like violence and bloodshed in movies, he was of the opinion that if you could have the real thing, you shouldn't bother with the illusion—but watching her fight like a queen nearly had him over the edge. He caught up to her with long, easy, loping strides, and looped a casual arm around her shoulders. The look he shot McQuay was nothing like his usual expression of gloating and mockery: he was savagely excited but still damn pissed, and damn scary, and McQuay quailed under the glance before trying one last time.

"Princess, I'm sorry. I just can't—" His face distorted. "I can't bear the thought of you letting this bastard—"

"Watch your tongue," Creed advised him, tossing a nasty grin over his shoulder. It was nothing like the cool, threatening sneers from his previous visits to McQuay's office: though gleeful, it had _personal_ etched in every tooth. "If that's too hard for you, I can help. Rip it out and nail it to a wall so you can see it better."

McQuay shuddered and licked his lips before turning his attention back to October, who was still walking, head high, not even flinching.

"You're fooling yourself, princess!" the little man called after her as the door began swinging shut behind them, desperate and scornful all at once. _"You're fooling yourself!"_

The door closed, leaving the fragile mutant behind in the huge foyer.

"You're fooling yourself, too," a growled voice said.

Dean whirled, wincing at the twinge in his fractured shoulder and, somehow, expecting to see Creed there.

Instead, it was the littler man—if such a man could be called little—the one named Logan.

"You don't even _like_ Creed," the silver-eyed mutant said frantically. "How can you _defend_ him?"

"I _don't_ like 'im, bub," Logan agreed. "Doesn't mean _you're_ not an idiot."

"But I—you didn't—"

The powerful mutant cut him off with a raised eyebrow. "You might put 'er on a pedestal, bub, but you still treat 'er like a child, and an idiot besides. You don't have an ounce of real respect for that woman out there, do ya?"

For a moment, McQuay looked utterly lost and confused. "I do respect her," he blustered, but the words were weak-sounding. "I—I love everything she stands for, everything she's done—"

"You love the _idea_ of her," Logan interrupted. "You don't know anything about the girl inside. Christ," he chuckled, but the sound was dry and almost painful, "you'd oppress her and abuse her more than anything Creed could do. You'd put her in a box. You'd kill her from the inside out." His brain was trapped in old memories, and rolled and mulled over his conversation with his long-lost brother. He turned on his heel and stalked in the other direction, rolling his shoulders, thinking of Jeannie, wanting to fight something, wanting to tear something up. "'Least Creed is upfront with the fact that he's a jackass," he muttered, loud enough for the silver-eyed mutant to hear.

Helplessly, Dean turned to Ororo, who stared at him impassively.

"You think she's being stupid too, don't you?" he asked, desperate.

The stately woman lifted her chin and looked down at the man. "I think she has made a well-informed choice," she said coolly. "That is her right."

"But—"

"If Logan thought she was truly in danger, he would not have let her go," she said gently, softening, trying to reassure him.

When he opened his mouth to protest, her eyes grew cold again.

"You should leave," she said abruptly, and as she walked away, a gust of wind pushed open the heavy doors, leaving him all alone and expressing in no uncertain terms that he was to show himself out.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**And as he fades into the background as the inconsequential little shit that he is, I have to say that it has been PLEASURE writing Dean McQuay. The kid was meant to be the exact opposite of everything our favorite non-hero is: where Creed is physically strong, McQuay is unnaturally fragile. Where Creed is rough and wild and cunning and sly, McQuay strives to be intellectual and cultured (who really has alcohol in crystal decanters in their offices? Other than the Luthors, I mean). Creed's mutation is entirely physical: a constantly regenerating body designed to inflict maximum damage. McQuay's is entirely cerebral: from his brain to yours. **

**The best part has been watching how Dean moves in opposition to Victor. As Creed tries to manipulate his worldview and self-perception to make room for October Morgan ("Well, I want her, so it's okay," or "Whatever it takes to make her mine"), McQuay has continued to try to squish her into an idealized box in order to **_**fit her in **_**to his preconcieved notions ("She's a sweet girl," and "You can't still want him!"). Victor, though it discomfits and infuriates him, has accepted what October is—McQuay denies that she is anything other than his ideal, refusing to allow her to be a complex individual of her own making. While Victor goes from treating her as a "fuck-and-kill" to a woman whose strength/spirit/fight he admires (however grudgingly), Dean envisions her as his dearest childhood friend and potential lover but can't acknowledge her independence or her capabilities—in fact, it unsettles him so completely that he verbally abuses her and nearly cracks her open with his cane.**

**Ah, yay. Good guys, bad guys, and morally ambiguous guys. What could be better? I actually think the conflicting, rivalry-relationship between these two is in some ways more interesting than the romance between October and Creed. :)**

Also, I hope that the _X-men versus Creed_ subplot didn't get wrapped up too easily. :) There will be a couple more Jimmy/Vic interactions, but nothing to huge. I [heart] the X-men, but they're not the central focus of this story. It's more just an opportunity to further explore the Jimmy/Vic dynamic, because I think it's a large part of who Creed is.

As a final note: I want to recognize and congratulate Lovebuggy for awesomeness during the last installment. Lovebuggy _actually_ took the time to find the paragraph with the five f-bombs! I owe someone fresh-baked e-cookies!!!!!


	18. Chapter VI: The Killer, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part II**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Night had almost fallen as they walked home. The sky was amber and dark blue, a sunset clean of too many colors. The crisp air was exactly how Victor liked it: a bit cold, with a sharp clarity of scent. Autumn was on its way.

For a few blocks, they walked in silence. He'd figured out in the restaurant during that first Thursday that while Toby could hold her own in public with quiet, sly rebuttals and subtle sarcastic attacks, she didn't generally choose to make a scene or air her personal life to the public. She was obviously embarassed—and hurt, because frails were sentimental like that—by the words she'd had with McQuay in front of the Xmen.

For himself—Victor was still pissed. Well, excited and edgy and pissed. Full of fighting energy. He wished he'd gotten a chance to pop the fucker's mandible back and traumatize his gigantic brain at the temples.

Or maybe something bloodier.

Creed cast a sideways glance at the blond girl beside him. "Don't you fucking listen to that pussy-little bitch, frail," he growled, his rage still in his throat, even while he gleefully thought of all the ways he could kill the fucker. "He's so busy using his enormously squishy brain for everything else that there's not enough left to run his shit-eating mouth."

Her lips twitched in humor and she cast him a silent upward glance. He could see the betrayal still in her eyes, but it was filtered through a kind of resigned disappointment, and he realized abruptly that she'd seen this—or something like it—coming for a while.

It was a long way back to the apartment but she had insisted on walking out here. How she'd made it seven miles in heels was beyond Victor, but he watched her slyly from the corner of his eye. If she started struggling, he would carry her—simple as that. In truth he was just glad not to be cooped up in a cab and wasn't looking forward to going back to her tiny apartment, other than the fact that he could then fuck her.

He thought she had seen that—his need to be out and to be moving—and hence her insistence on walking. He also thought that when her feet started killing her, she wouldn't say a word, so he'd have to be watching,

Foolish frail.

So damn stupidly generous.

"Storm's very beautiful," she said after a long silence.

He blinked at her. What the fuck?

"All the women over there are. Not an ounce of fat on them, flawless skin."

He shrugged, eyeing her narrowly. "Being a mutant generally comes with a high metabolism. Extra abilities burn extra energy, especially the more you use 'em," he said after a moment. "Most of 'em have some sort of mild healing factor—not like mine, of course. They can still die. But it keeps them looking good for a long time. They have to: weather witch like the Munroe woman would be haggard and run ragged by now, trying to control all those wild forces, f'she didn't have something inside her to back her up, keep her body strong and young."

She turned a concerned stare up at him and he almost laughed with the realization.

Little girl was _nervous_. Jealous. Afraid. As though her plush curves and tenderness could be matched by any hard-eyed, lean-bodied mutant. The feeling in his bones returned: straining, warm, itching.

Shit, but he wanted to fuck her silly.

"Have I not made it clear how much I want you?" he growled, but his eyes were laughing at her expense. He was torn between self-satisfied mirth and irritation. "If I wanted to be fucking the Munroe bitch, I'd be fucking the Munroe bitch." God, her insecurity tasted sweet. He had never expected the kind of power he wielded over her. The strength to kill seemed somehow pathetic and scrawny compared to what he could do to her now, if he wanted. He could raise her up and crush her in the same moment.

Sometimes, he impressed even himself.

When she stumbled over her shoes, he was likewise impressed. Aside from the few blocks they'd walked to and from the diner, she'd been strolled over ten miles in those ridiculus things. Easily, he swung her up into his arms, snickering again when she gasped. She made him feel so damn _good,_ so strong and powerful—he would reward her for it as soon as they got back to her apartment.

God, he couldn't wait to get all this shit wrapped up and move her to his place. He'd keep her naked all the time. Fuck Wade Wilson—a man who, once upon a time, Victor had been consistently jealous of. Wilson had never had a girl like this waiting for him every time he got back from a mission.

And Creed would. He'd make sure of it. He'd keep her around for a _long _fuckin' time.

She fit nicely his arms. Creed cut through the park when they reached it. The terrain would have killed her feet, but it was a shorter walk this way, and he couldn't wait to have her pressed against the wall in the privacy of her home. Still, the girl was troubled.

"'_Do_ _you even know what he meant?'_" Creed quoted after a long moment of silence, where the only thing she'd been listening to was the steady throb of his massive heart.

October flashed a confused look up at him.

"S'what you said to your little buddy Dean-o," he clarified.

She flushed. "Oh, I—"

"What did _you_ mean?" he asked, pressing.

"He said that you had said you'd do whatever it took to keep me here," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "He took that to mean that you would kill, torture, maim—all the things you do already—in order to make me stay with you."

He tilted his head upward and slanted a look down at her in his arms. A caustic little grin played at the corners of his mouth. "He's right," Creed said firmly, flashing his teeth down at her predatorily.

"I'm sure he is," she said after a moment, hor voice still measured and cautious, uncertain of his reaction. "But I also know that it means you'll do whatever it takes to keep me happy."

He was silent. He didn't like how easily she could read him, sometimes. He wasn't used to it, and he liked to have his secrets. Still—this wasn't one of those times. It made him itchy and uncomfortable, but for some reason, he was glad she could see this.

He tried to rationalize it. _One more road to making her mine._ The words seemed somehow false.

"To take care of me, and watch out for me." She hesitated, made uncertain by his quietness. "To be strong in the…in the _rare_ moments when I can't be, or don't want to be."

His lips twitched at her emphasis on the word "rare," and she knew it was okay. He liked the fight in her.

"I'm your safety," he told her firmly, leaving no room for argument. He wanted her all wrapped up in him, knowing that he was the thing that stood between her and all the other frightening things out there. That he was the scariest motherfucker of all of 'em, and she was _his._

And he was gonna take care of her. At least, he reasoned, for as long as he wanted her.

"I can fight my own battles," she said mildly, but there was something softer in his voice.

Her protest pricked something in him and he bared his teeth, but he had to admit the veracity of her statement—to an extent, anyway. She was a tough little bird. "If there are any you can't…" His voice sharpened, turned into a threat. "And you know there will be, frail…that's where I come in. I'm bigger'n you, and tougher than you, and meaner than you. I'm made to fight things."

She hesitated, as though sensing there was something deeper in his words, something he didn't want to let on. This mattered to him, on some deeper level than just the sense of ownership he was trying to project. He _wanted _her safe, and he'd do whatever he could to ensure it, whether she needed it or not.

Probably enjoy it, too, on the occasions when it brought him an opportunity for brawling or bloodshed.

"You have a lot in your arsenal, frail, but I'm the best weapon you've got," he said sharply, willing her to submit to it, to admit that he could take care of her. It was important, though he couldn't have said why. If he'd had the time to justify himself, he might have said that it took her a step closer to admitting that she was his.

"You are," she concurred at last, her eyes on his.

He bared his teeth then, scornful and triumphant all at once. He was not the type of man to feel pity, especially not for a nauseating little insect like McQuay. Because of this, he couldn't resist degrading the shithead while he was at it. "That pansy-ass little motherfucker wouldn't know how to give you what you needed even if he wanted to. He'd treat you like glass and not pay attention to any of the important things. He'd waste all his time trying to shelter you from shit you don't need to be sheltered from, and at the same time not take care of the shit that needs to be taken care of in your life." He paused, then added seriously, his voice almost a threat, "I _will."_

"You're the only one who can," she agreed, her voice both a little mirthful—as though she were humoring him—but also a little breathless.

"Damn fuckin' straight."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

"What are you doing, Logan?"

The feral mutant, once named James Howlett, glance dup at his stately teammate. "'Ro," he acknowledged, turning back to the files he'd fished out of Chuck's old cabinets. "I'm—lookin' for somethin'."

"I can see that," the woman smiled slightly. "What are you looking for?"

Logan hesitated. Then: "Information for Creed."

Storm blinked, then leaned against the wall, lazily stretching her lean frame. "Since when do you help him out, Logan?" Her delicate brow furrowed with concern.

Logan sighed and leaned back. "The Morgan girl's sisters got stolen away two years back. You remember the news?"

Ororo nodded. It had been in the reports for days before someone higher-up had squashed the story, probably because of the pro-mutant sentiment that was stirring.

"Three little girls, right? All under the age of sixteen or seventeen. Stolen right out of her home, with something about the FoH carved into the door." She paused, trying to remember. "Partly, it made such a splash because she was already famous in mutant-rights and anti-mutant circles, but—if I'm remembering correctly—it became even more of social issue because the FoH had apparently attacked normal people in order to further their advantage. People lost trust in them, and it backfired, and they found themselves with negative publicity." She stilled, her lips pursing regretfully. "Again, unless I'm remembering wrongly, they never found anything. Not the police or the federal agencies, and not the detectives that she simply—disappeared. It was…tragic."

Logan sighed, propping his elbows on the desk and massaging his temples. "Creed wants to find 'em."

"The kids?" the woman asked, clearly surprised. "I would be…_stunned…_if they were still alive—"

"No," the dark-haired man responded, sounding weary. "Creed's fair-certain they'd dead an' gone. He wants to find the ones that took from his girl."

Storm stilled. "Logan…you know what he'll do to them if he finds them."

The man's face screwed up in an expression of pain and defeat and confusion. "He loves 'er, 'Ro."

She blinked. "Excuse me? Did he—did he _say_ that?"

The feral snorted. "No. Jackass doesn't even know it yet. Probably'll never say it—he's not that kind of animal."

"Then how do you—"

Logan shrugged. "I've seen the way he treats women. They're nothing but pawns to him, to use and throw away. Every single one of 'em. And what does he use them for? Sex. Blood. _Power._ That's'what it is." He paused. "Then there's her. This darlin' girl who throws him off his game. Maybe he doesn't realize it, but he sees _her_ strength and reflects it back a hundred times over. He suddenly realizes there's this whole other kind of power he has that he's never used before—not since we were kids. That he can make things _better_ for this girl who's got him all muddled up and is probably doing sweet things for him, treating him better than he's ever been treated by anyone." Logan paused. "Even me."

Ororo stared at him, taken aback. "You don't owe him anything, Logan."

The compact man rolled his shoulders. "Not now. But once, I did." He cleared his throat. He wasn't like his brother—Logan was intimately familiar with regret. "S'not the point. Point is, he's the only one who can do it, who's tough enough and stubborn enough and mean enough and _selfish_ enough to force his way into this little girl's life and give it all back to her, much as he can."

Ororo moved her gaze blankly to the wall, processing what Logan had said. "October needs things, and those needs aren't being met. So he realizes he can provide for her—but why does he _do_ it? Why not dangle it in her face and leave her deprived and hurting? That seems like his usual _modus operandi."_

Logan shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. The only thing I can think is—Creed gets high on the power. For him, it's an adrenaline rush, or the best fuck ever. He sees this girl who he wants, and she wants him back. _She wants him back. _All of him, even the parts that other people don't like." He shook his head. "You gotta understand, that's a novelty for him—his dad never cared for him, and my mom hated him somethin' fierce. He was always protectin' me, growing up, and kinda got the shit-end of any social skills he coulda learned. Nobody ever liked him but me, and when he got too bad, I just up'n left too."

"You can't blame yourself," the white-haired woman interrupted, her eyes clipping back to him.

He shook his head. "I'm don't. Well, I did what I had to do, but it doesn't make me blameless in the whole thing either. But, again, s'not the point. Point is: she needs things, he can get them for her, or _be_ them for her. Make her want him even more. But if he kills her or hurts her or somethin', he doesn't have access to any of that rush anymore."

"Then it's an addiction," Ororo said, nodding as though it made sense.

Logan scowled. "Yer oversimplifyin' it. S'not that easy. There has to be somethin' about her that has him all snared up in the first place. He's blurrin' the line between pure, animal self-gratification and _genuinely_ valuin' _her_ needs, _above his own,_ and he doesn't even know it, or doesn't want to admit it. He's foolin' himself through and through." The compact man snorted. "He says _I_ lie to myself."

"It's very…unexpected," Ororo responded after a moment, sounding thoughtful and a little dubious. "And…good? I suppose? But…are you going to let him kill the people who hurt her? More importantly, Logan, are you going to help him?"

"I haven't decided yet," Logan admitted. "If I find anything out—I don't know if I'll tell him. But he has just as many resources at his disposal as we do, and he's a hunter besides. He'll find them one way or another, sooner or later. Plus—" He broke off.

"Yes?" Ororo prompted. She could tell how distraught her comrade was by the way he cracked his knuckles and flexed his hands. He would clearly rather be beating something up than talking to her.

He sighed. "Fer one, the girl told me today that I should be less judgmental of him. That if I'd been the older brother, our personalities today mighta been switched. And maybe she's right. I don't know. I think there'd always be somethin' in him that's more vicious, more animal than me. I don't regret most of the kills I've made—you do what you gotta do to survive. But Vic _revelled _in it, 'Ro. He'd go looking for trouble. Sometime when we were growin' up, sometime after he slowly realized I didn't need him to look out for me anymore…I think it kind of became all he knew he was good at, and his whole…_identity_ just kind of formed around it. But—hell, 'Ro, when we were kids, he was a _good_ big brother. I don't think a boy coulda been luckier than to have Vic by his side, lookin' out for him. And I don't know if she's right or wrong, but it got me to thinkin'…if I were in his shoes, what would I do?"

"Logan…" Storm said sadly, already seeing where this was going.

"Ait made me think of what I've learned this past year. I wanted to tear him apart for what he did to Kayla, and I woulda, too, if I could've. And it also made me think of Jeannie, and what I would do if she were hurting the way that poor girl must be hurting. Creed said she won't even move to a new apartment, that she's afraid the little ones'll come back and they won't be able to find her. And I was thinking if it were Jean, I'd find the goddam _fuckers_ and rip their goddamn _throats out."_

Ororo moved behind the man, her hands on his shoulders, gently kneading. He buried his face in his hands, silencing the sounds that other men might have made. After a long moment of quiet, in which Ororo felt the quiet quaking of his huge shoulders, he lifted his head.

"She's the best damn thing he's ever had in his sorry life, 'Ro," the compact man said quietly. "So, short answer is: no. I don't know what I'm gonna do yet."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Creed had no problem with taking a woman in public. He'd done it a hundred times before—usually vicious rapes on or just off the battlefield, with blood staining his the roar of bloodlust all around, however, most men rarely noticed a companion destroying another life—if they saw it, many of them had stopped caring.

But Victor Creed excelled at a lot of things, and one of them was laying low when he had to. Not drawing attention to himself. He figured, therefore, that shredding October's clothes and taking her against a tree would not be the most advantageous action he could take.

It was damn hard, too, after all that talk about how he was the biggest, meanest, most powerful man she knew.

As soon as they stepped in apartment, she had leaned up in his arms and pressed her lips to his throat, nipping him with her blunt, small teeth. She didn't even wait for the door to close.

He kicked it shut behind them and set her down roughly. "Someone's eager." His voice was sinister, mocking, rough. She shuddered at the low threat in it. "Think you can make it to the bedroom, or should I just fuck you here?"

She trembled and reached for him, but he caught her wrist easily in one giant hand, holding them away from his body. "Not just yet, frail." He baredhis teeth in a grin. "I promised to make you _suffer_." He turned then, bending her backward over the kitchen counter, her body arched toward his in complete vulnerability.

"Victor," she managed to gasp out as he slid a claw down the blue faux-satin of her bodice. Her breasts spilled out and he eyed them hungrily, a savage grin curling his features. "Victor, I've been…_'suffering'_…since this morning—"

"Not like you're gonna suffer now, sugar." His grin grew harder, more dangerous, and he smelled her fear mingling with her desire. "I'm a bad, ruthess animal." He locked her arms behind her with one massive fist and feasted on her breasts, scraping his fangs over them, nipping and sucking and biting. He palmed one of the heavy globes in his free hand, rubbing his calloused thumb over the nipple and areola as she thrashed against him, trying to free herself. His tongue rasped over the sensitive flesh of her other breast and when her knees buckled, he slung her around so quickly that the room was a blur to her weak eyes. She found herself flung on the couch, breathless, and then he was on her, pinning her, his skin hot against her own.

She nearly sobbed at the feel of him, his heat and his weight pressing against her small frame. Her arms flew around his broad shoulders, but he snagged them again with a giant claw and held her pinned. "No touching," he ordered, his face savage with raw gloating. "Not till I tell you. You gonna listen to me, frail? Or do I have to hurt you?"

Her breath hitched and she couldn't help but respond to the threat in his voice, straining against him involuntarily, trying to get closer. "Please—Victor—"

His grinned widened, a blend of malice and satisfaction. He relished in her plea, savored it. "Don't be begging yet, sugar," he drawled sarcastically. "I haven't even started." There was a world of danger in his tone.

He raked his spare claw lightly over her side and she twitched, nearly convulsing with need when he reached around to the small of her back and skated the rough pads of his fingers over the base of her spine. He leaned down, the short, dark fur at his jaw scraping her throat softly and then moving down her breast as he purred. When his fangs found her breast and pricked, she tensed in his arms like a coiled spring, and when he suddenly attacked her chest with ferocious, open-mouthed kisses that nearly devoured her, she bucked against him, gasping. Had he allowed her the use of her hands, he had no doubt she would have been clutching at him frantically. As it was, she had wriggled around and locked her legs around his waist, her blue dress now a ruined mess around her waist.

He chuckled darkly and ground against her core, his thick erection pressing into hard, hot pressure of him against her crotch combined with the texture of her lace underwear had her crying out and arching wildly. Her legs tightened and she tilted her head back, showing the vulnerable line of her throat. A low mew came from her as he moved against her. He shifted suddenly, pulling back and not touching her except to keep a clamped fist on her wrists. She whimpered a protest, straining and thrashing against him, struggling to get close enough to touch him. He barked a laugh when she slid sideways beneath him, and he rolled onto the floor off the couch, taking her with him.

She didn't even seem to notice, she was so feverish. "Victor—!" she begged as he rolled her beneath him, still holding her at a distance. He cut cleanly through her underwear with his free hand, sweeping the side of one finger across her sex and then leaving her wanting.

"P-please," she beseeched him, her voice quaking with need. He slid a warning finger against her again and she bowed upward, pleading wordlessly with an agonized moan.

He leaned down into her. He was still wearing his coat and shirt, and the rough material skimmed against her oversensitized breasts. A salty tang hit the air as she cried out, struggling to move against him, and he pulled back, furrowing his brow as he studied her.

Tears stood out on her lower lashes, glistening in the dusky light as she continued to strain against him.

"Oh, honey," he purred slowly, the realization coming to him in pieces. She'd said as much, true, but he hadn't realized fully how weak-kneed she'd been for him. The thought made him nearly salviate, and his grin widened threateningly. "You've been wanting this all day, haven't you? Been waitin' a long time."

She struggled at the sound of his voice, the gravelly quality of it. He loomed over her, one hand still locked around her wrists, the other forearm presed to the floor beside her head so he could brace himself. He leaned down and licked a slow line from her nipple to her chin, leaving her quivering and shuddering. He blew on the damp streak of her throat and noted that she was sweating and shivering all at once from her exertion. He, on the other hand, hadn't even broken a sweat.

"I could kill you right now," he growled softly, his voice low in her ear. "_Right now._ You know I could." He grinned, bared his teeth at her. "And you'd beg me to touch you just a little bit more."

Her tears slid down to her temples, dampening the golden strands there.

"Don't worry, kitten," he rumbled against her, his smile widening to clearly display his long, sharp incisors. "I promise, I'm gonna take _real_ good care of you."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Hours later, October lay sprawled on the rug, boneless and passed out cold. He'd kept her hovering on the edge for what had damn-well seemed like forever, until she'd dissolved into wordless, tearful sobs of pleading.

_Poor, sweet thing._

He'd taunted her a hundred different ways, at one point fucking her against the couch with her cheek pressed against the cushions and her sweet ass high in the air. There was no way around it: he enjoyed taking her like an animal.

Of course, he enjoyed taking her just about every other way, too.

He'd tormented her every way he could think of, always stopping just shy of letting her come. He hadn't told her yet, but he was planning on taking a couple trips soon, and he wanted her to have plenty of things to dream about while he was gone.

She'd finally reached the point where her arousal was painful, and she was all tears and begging him to keep touching her anyway, to keep toying with her. Her lips were swollen and wet, her skin slick with sweat, everything in her trembling and crying out with pain and desire whenever he touched any bit of her hypersensitive flesh. The insides of her thighs, the insides of her wrists, the rough texture of his cheek at her throat—she was panting and crying and sobbing and clutching. At the sight of her, pleading with him, he murmured something about her being a good little thing and how he'd promised to take care of her, hadn't he?—and finally, cradling her shaking, aching body against him, he slid his hard thigh between hers and skated his fingers over her clit, tugging as gently as he knew how.

When he'd finally given her what she needed, she'd sailed on the orgasm for longer than he'd thought possible. A simple pull of his fingers had her strung out on the next hopeless wave, and the next. Her body was wound so tight that she shuddered in the wake of her orgasms even after she blacked out, her limbs still quivering and shaking against him.

Creed considered picking her up and taking her to the bedroom, but to be honest, the floor afforded more space for him ad he didn't want to risk waking the frail. Her face was salty with dried tears—all of them a _pleasure, _thank you very much—and he leaned over to flick his tongue across her cheek, catlike. He was pleased to see he'd not cut her hardly at all this time around, and his clawed fingers lightly traced the four white streaks on her belly from a few weeks earlier.

Victor rolled over and grabbed the fleece blanket off the couch. Somehow it had been torn in the previous activity, but it was still large enough and whole enough for him to wrap her in it and pull her closer, pillowing her head on his upper arm as he leaned over her, keeping watch.

When the sun rose, he hadn't slept at all. It wasn't a problem for him—he enjoyed sleep when there wasn't anything better to do, but years in wars and missions and keeping one eye open for Jimmy in the Canadian wilderness had trained him had taught him how to stretch a few hours of sleep for days.

At some point in the night she had taken to shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor, even in her sleep, so he hoisted her onto himself and let her doze on his chest. When she woke with the familiar, feline stretching and popping of joints, her softness cascading over the muscled planes of his body, he growled and hardened underneath her.

"Morning, sunshine," she murmured drowsily, wincing when her overworked muscles stretched tautly.

He growled and slipped his hands under the fleece blanket, coasting his roughened palms lightly down her back. "You're hurt." He could almost feel the ache and tension in her fragile little body.

To October, the tightness she felt reminded her of the first good days of springtime when she was little, and climbing high in the early-June trees. Playing tag, swimming in the mucky pond behind her neighbor's house.

Muscles were always just a tad sore after a good day, in her opinion.

She snuggled against him, smiling. "I feel wonderful," she corrected. Morning light filtered in through the window. Her hair glinted on his chest in a hundred different colors of gold and brass and copper and bronze.

He was silent for a long moment, then clawed a hand through her tangles. Roughly, trying to use the voice he usually reserved for death-threats, he growled, "You said I couldn't give you what you wanted."

When she was silent, he continued. "To make you say you're mine." He didn't say, _To make you mine._ Even if she didn't say it, he knew it was true—but he wanted the words. The complete surrender.

"I know what you're talking about," she said softly. Her face was still turned away from him, her cheek pressed to his heart.

"F'you want that Roman kid to go to the Institute—I can arrange that."

She looked up at that, her eyes wide. "Thank you. I actually—already took care of that. But—" she pressed her fingers to the right side of his jaw, drawing him closer so she could touch her mouth reverently to his jaw. "—Thank you. Really. I—" She broke off, blinking rapidly.

"You're not supposed to cry when I'm trying to be good," he snarled, managing to sound—well, _cranky _rather than mean, and she laughed, brushing at her eyes with one hand. The other moved around his throat to stroke the nape of his neck. He shifted under her, yanking a pillow from off the couch to tuck it under his head.

"What do you want?" he asked again. "I've told you before: I can give you anything."

She wrinkled her nose. "It's not the kind of thing you can ask for," she said, then laughed. "Well, it's exactly the sort of thing _you _ask for. Not the sort of thing_ I_ ask for."

"I haven't done right by you if you don't think you can tell me what you want," he retorted, grinning violently. "Maybe we should make that a lesson, hmm? I can make you spell out exactly what you want me to do to you. Every…little…thing." He slipped a knuckled down between them, pressing it into her folds.

She jolted, blushed, and batted at his hand in spite of the awkward angle. "That sounds…very educational. But it's still not gonna get you what you want. This is the sort of thing that has to be given freely."

He snarled his frustration, removing his hands from her body and tucking them behind his head. "I _would_ give it to you freely, if you would tell me what the fuck it was, frail."

"No," she said quietly, her voice suddenly soft and sad. "You'd resent it."

He growled something incomprehensible. "One of these days I'm gonna kill you. Get you out from under my skin."

A flicker of that intoxicating fear in the air, but she just smiled and curled into him.

"I'm not even fucking scary anymore," he sulked. He really _was _gonna kill her. See who was grinning then.

She laughed at him outright.

"See!" he bellowed, aggravated beyond belief. He tried to think about slaughtering her. Unike with Dean McQuay, however, no random images of gore and violence popped gleefully into his head.

"I'm laughing at the ridiculousness of that statement," she corrected, smiling against him and flicking her tongue over one of his flat nipples. "You're incredibly scary." She smirked. "I'm just incredibly brave."

Heat began simmering under his skin again. "Or incredibly stupid," he grumbled, still peeved. He rolled the two of them so that he was over her now. "Tell me what it is you want," he demanded again. "I'll torture it out of you if I have to." His claws raked lightly up her belly, spiralling over her breasts. Her body was a network of pale, unbloodied scratches and bruises from earlier. She stretched languidly beneath him in spite of her tense muscles.

He growled, pleased with her physical response at any rate, and lapped her throat langourously. "What do you want, frail?"

"Right now?" she laughed. "You, again, please."

"You know what I mean," he murmured. "What will it take to make you admit you're mine?"

A pause, in which she lay still.

He wondered if she wanted him to say he loved her. It seemed like the sort of thing a frail would want to hear. Of course, it had never been a concern to him before, and he wasn't entirely sure he knew what she would desire.

And if that _was_ what she wanted…it would never happen. Hell, he didn't even know really what the word meant. He knew, when she said it, that she was giving himsomething she thought was important, that she was putting herself on the line to be hurt…but he didn't really know what it _meant._

He did know that saying he loved her was as good as putting a target on her chest and letting her parade around unescorted. She was already vulnerable enough, having been identified as his woman. And he'd learned from watching Jimmy: say you love a woman, and she was as good as dead.

After all, Creed kept tabs on his little brother: knew he'd fallen in love with the red-headed tele-slut a few years back. Had to kill her, if the sources were correct. One more woman of Jimmy's, dead and cold. At his own hand, this time. It was ironic: the runt had loved two women—romantically, at any rate.

They'd each died twice.

To Creed's way of thinking, Jimmy's loving made him weak. And somehow, inconcievably, killing the redhead himself had made him even _softer_. He seemed more pensive now, less eager to fight—if such a thing were possible.

No fuckin' thanks. Love was not in the cards for Victor Creed. He'd rather spend an eternity locked in solitary with a recording of Wade Wilson on repeat.

Still, if he was entirely honest with himself—a state he'd taken to avoiding of late—Creed would've had to admit that he hoped the Morgan frail understood. In some fashion, she _mattered _to him. He would tell her in other ways. In careful touches and attentiveness. In the fact that he was backing off on killing McQuay.

In how he was gonna deal with the bastards who'd taken her sisters.

He suddenly pulled back and looked down at her seriously, as though realizing something.

"I can't give you your sisters back, frail," he said regretfully.

Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed softly. For a moment, there was a vaguely haunted look in her eyes. "Not that," she said. "I wouldn't ask that of you. That…impossibility. I just—" A pause, and then earnestly, "I would never even _try_ to put a collar on you, Victor."

He stiffened. Was that how she saw his claims? As a collar? He supposed in a way it was, but—

"You're not my pet, frail." _I just want to own you._

"Oh, I'm not—I'm not trying to say—" She paused, floundered, and scowled. "I'm fucking this all up."

His mouth twitched with humor and exasperation: a dangerous combination. For anyone but her, at any rate. "F'you'd just tell me what it was you wanted, it wouldn't be such a big deal."

She slumped under him, defeated, and he grinned against her. "I'll figure it out, frail. Sooner or later." He stood up slowly, bare-chested but still in his jeans from the night before. He picked her up easily, winding her in the torn blanket, and deposited her on the couch with relative gentleness. "I got somewhere I need to be today. You stay in, stay safe. Don't be an idiot." He paused, then grabbed his coat off the floor and fished around in one of the pockets, tossing a small, dark blue cell phone at her. "F'anyone weird comes round, or you need something, you hit speed-dial one, y'hear? It'll connect to me straightaway. I programmed it in last night, while you were talkin' to Jimmy. The next speed dial is the number at the Institute, you got it?"

"Is this—it's not your…?" she said, looking confused. She'd seen Creed's cell—it was a shiny blood-red thing. And she didn't think he'd purchased one recently…

He grinned smugly. "I kifed it from Jimmy during our little scrap."

Her jaw dropped, and then she laughed. "You are a bad, bad man."

His smile widened. "Don't you forget it, frail."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: Let me point out, please, that I love almost every character in this corner of the Marvelverse. I have NOTHING against Wade Wilson/Deadpool, or Logan, or Ororo. I think they're all very interesting, complex characters, and the movies make them VERY human (Ororo drove me crazy in X3 with her reaction to the Cure, especially in front of Rogue, who I empathized with, but I thought it went a long way to making Ororo into a real, complicated person). In fact, I really love Deadpool and Logan. But I think Wade probably drove Victor FUCKING BATSHIT (both because of his smartassery and because I think Creed would be jealous of how "easy" things came to a charming, classically good-looking swordsman), which is why I kind of portray him as an annoying little shit sometimes in the 'fic. Also, I have no grudge against Logan for leaving Vic (which I think it might seem like from October's confrontation of him in the previous chapter). I think it's just an interesting concept to explore.**

**I also think that exploring the Jimmy/Vic dynamic opens up new doors. I really feel like, after watching the opening sequence of Origins, that we see this timeline of where Vic was eager to look out for this kid, and later kind of evolves into someone who really just focuses on all the ways he can wreak havoc. In my mind, I've created this sort of timeline: Vic takes care of Jimmy, Jimmy kills Thomas Logan and Vic realizes they're brothers and they run away together. Since Jimmy's still sickly (I can't imagine he just got better once his mutation manifested the night he killed their father…I try to explain this in the fic by not having his healing factor how up till a few years later), Vic focuses pretty much all of his attention on taking care of his brother (learns how to hunt, etc). I see a kind of gradual progression where they get kicked out/abused in various towns and settlements, which occasionally requires Vic to use violence to defend his little brother (as expressed in this 'fic via the stories Vic has shared either with the audience or Toby). I think this tight bond and all Vic has done for Jimmy allows Jimmy to continue looking up to his big brother for a long time after his healing factor develops, and that they obviously still share a bond of brotherly affection throughout the wars. At some point, though, Vic has to realize Jimmy doesn't need him anymore. Not the way he used to. And while I doubt his mental processes were this lucid, I can just imagine some subconcious part of him thinking: what am I good for then?**

**Well, um, massacreing and terrifying people.**

**I think that there is a vicious cycle where the more Creed kills—and, let's face it, enjoys doing it, thank you very much—the greater the divide grows between him and Jimmy. And the greater the divide grows, the more Creed kills. Ouch. I think this really explains his gradual descent into gratuitous violence as evidenced in the opening credits of Origins, where every battle scene shows Vic becoming more and more of, well, a sadist. And when Jimmy leaves entirely…* shrug * The slaughter of innocents is to Creed as nicotine is to a smoker, I guess. Relieve some stress: have a cigarette or disembowel someone.**

**And then, in my mind—and as I hope this chapter has kind of illustrated—he meets this girl who accepts him at face value, might have a slight death wish, and who he can actually do something for, help, provide for. She's only a couple steps stronger than young, sickly Jimmy, as far as physical strength goes, and she knows what it's like—as Victor says—to be irrevocably bound to a sibling who is out of your reach. She will **_**never **_**be able to "outgrow" him, and she will always be able to understand where he is coming from in his relationship with Jimmy, which might be the most traumatic and decisive long-term event of (movieverse) Vic's life.**

**/ end summary.**

**From this point on, things wrap up fast. There are only three more chapters, though I'm not entirely happy with the conclusion yet. We'll see, I guess…**

**Coming Soon:**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part III: Creed picks up another prezzie for October. This one's got teeth. Logan and Creed chat: it seems like everyone is reminding him that normal women don't live forever. SMUT, mush, and a new mission.**


	19. Chapter VI: The Killer, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part III **

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

The first thing out of Creed's mouth when he saw the dog was, "He's not gonna piss in my car, is he?"

Jane scowled. "I trained him, didn't I?" Her throat had gone a long way in healing. The words rasped out, but they were audible now.

Creed sneered. "Is thatta _yes,_ Janey?"

"Don't be an ass, Creed. Or is that too much to ask?"

He leaned back, thumbs in his belt loops, and stared down the rottweiler. "What's his name?"

"Anything the girl wants it to be," Janey said. "He'll answer to her alone now. Well, her and you." Her lip curled at the thought. "Poor pup," she crooned, petting the rottweiler's head. It growled low in its throat but didn't move. "He's also got a soft spot for kids. I always train that in, by the way."

"Soft spot for kids, Janey?" Victor grinned. "I would'nt've pegged you for it."

"No," she snapped. "Dog bites a kid, they usually put it down. It's an ingrained defense mechanism, is all."

"Well, that just might do me good, Janey." He thought of the three little girls. They were likely as not dead, but if somehow they had survived— "If there're any problems with the mutt, I'll bring it back and feed you to it, got it?"

She scowled. "There won't _be_ any problems, Creed." She held out a hand, offering him his shirt and, folded neatly on top, October's turquoise panties. Toby had been complaining about them being missing lately, and casting him suspicious glances, to which he'd only leered menacingly and let her draw her own conclusions.

He reached for the clothing, and Janey danced out of the way. When a growl started in his throat, she held up a cautionary hand. "Let me just say one thing, I never told anyone. And it's not 'cause I respect you. It's because I think you're a goddamn moron."

His lip curled in a silent snarl.

"When I was a teenager, my dad raped me just about as often as he could. When I hit eighteen I got outta there fast as my wolfie legs would go. Few years later I was having pain and went to the doctor. Since it had happened before my healing factor kicked in, I had tons of scar tissue all up inside me. I ended up having have surgery—which, lemme just tell you, with a healing factor—it's no picnic." She paused, her voice suddenly low and furious, catching his attention-which had already been wandering.

"He was just a normal man, Creed. Smallish, to my understanding. And I was a teenage girl. Fourteen when he started." She paused and eyed him pointedly with amber eyes. "If these little lace things are any indicator" –she flicked a glance at the turquoise panties— "this girl is about half your size. And you're a brute. You don't have to be a giant to fuck her up on the inside, Creed—you just have to be too rough. You think about what you're doing to her."

"Mind your own fucking business," he snapped, furious as he grabbed the stack of clothing from her. "Next time instead of crushing your throat I'll just take off your whole damn head."

But once in the car, he thought of the blood between October's thighs. Kicking up clouds of dust as the car roared away from Janey's place, he glowered at the road and tried to think of how he could be more careful.

He'd have to be, if he wanted to keep her.

The feeling in his bones returned—like they were being slowly bent, or stretched—something almost familiar. He _hated _things he didn't understand, like this weird strain deep in his skeleton, fucking him up on the inside, and he smashed a hand against the dashboard.

The frame of the dash buckled under his palm, crumpling in leather and shattered plastic and wires.

_Fuck._

When he got back on the highway, with the dog on the floor in the back—_Stay down!_ he'd snapped at it, baring his fangs and showing it who was boss—his cell started ringing. He didn't recognize the number but figured he knew who it was, and flipped the red phone opened.

"Who's it?" he asked shortly.

"Figured you stole my phone, Creed. Tried to ring you on it but the girl picked up."

He grinned savagely. "Little brother. You called. I'm touched."

He could almost hear Jimmy sneering with disgust. "Jackass."

"Let's not call names."

"I don't know why I'm even helping you," the younger mutant snapped.

Creed fell silent. Then: "You got somethin' for me, runt?"

"Let's not call names," his brother echoed mockingly.

Victor rolled his eyes. "Well? What the fuck is it?"

"D'you love her, Creed?"

Victor choked, then bellowed a laugh. "What the fuck does that word even _mean,_ Jimmy? Do I get little fuckin' _butterflies_? Do I suddenly want to frolick with puppies and save Christmas? _Fuck no._ I just want to keep her around. She's a good screw."

"You also wanna hunt down the bastards who hurt her."

Creed shifted uncomfortably, glad Jimmy couldn't see or smell him. "She's mine to hurt," he growled. "No-one else's."

"You said you don't hurt her." The tone was an accusation. "You _want_ her _happy_."

"She's more generous with her cunt that way," Victor snapped, his irritation growing. "Whatever keeps her thighs open—"

"You never cared about that before, Creed. You'd just force 'em." Jimmy paused. "I think it's more than that. I think it goes deeper."

"Thinking was never your strong point, was it, runt?"

"I think you'd do what was best for her even if there was nothing in it for you. I think you like the way she treats you, and you like who she is. I think you wanna do right by her, as right as you know how. I think you want to take care of her the way she takes care of you, give back the kind of kindness—"

"_For fuck's sake, Jimmy!"_ Victor roared, infuriated. "Are you gonna tell me what you found or not? 'Cause I am about two seconds from changin' my route and coming to hunt you down and _tear your_ _goddamn throat out, you little shit."_

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. Jimmy—_soft from losing the red-haired slut,_ Creed thought—yielded easily. "FoH started some new people on their payroll about two and three years back. One was Frederick Mendohls, the lawyer. I'm sure you've heard of 'im."

Creed thought of the pudgy, pasty-faced man in the courtroom, with his condescending smirk and oily voice. "Yeah," he snarled. "I've heard of 'im."

"They also hired three others—Sev 'Skeleton' Briggs, Johnny Oliver, and Marcus Blume. Funny thing is they're all professionals in the underground. Never been a body found from any of 'em. But Sev…he's an interesting one. He's actually a mutant, and the only one who's not by nature a killer."

"Friends of Humanity hired a mutant?" Creed asked, ears pricking.

Jimy grunted his assent. "Skeleton's a gearsmith. He can mess with anything that's got sprockets, pinions, cogwheels, and so on."

"So what? He can fuck with Big Ben? Reset my clock during Daylight Savings?"

"You're a dick, Creed," Jimmy growled. "He can get into locks too, you dumbass. Shift the little tickers inside. He doesn't need a key. S'like he _is_ a key."

"Skeleton Key," the bigger man said as the understanding clicked. _They must have forgotten to lock the door,_ October had said. _Or…or I did._

Poor frail.

"S'right. I read back through the newspapers on the Morgan girl's case and it said there was no forced entry. Hell inside—place was in shambles—"

_She found her sister's blue-painted fingernail by the door,_ Creed thought.

"—but the lock on the door wasn't even picked. Skeleton's a thief: always had been, always woulda been, if it weren't for this little blip in his records. Anyway, one of the other guys—Johnny Oliver—turns out he has kind of a specialty in kids. He's been in arrested for over twelve kidnapping cases, but the feds could never find enough to even hold him, much less charge 'im or convict 'im."

"Interesting," Creed said slowly, his voice a low growl.

"S'all I got, Creed," Jimmy responded, his tone short. "Listen—you find these guys, you better make sure they're the ones at fault before you do anything foul."

Victor's lip curled as he shifted the phone to the other ear, steering with one hand. "The fuck, Jimmy? They're all dirty murderers or thieves—just like me. I wouldn't think you'd care if I gutted 'em like fish regardless."

"I do care, Creed," the smaller man hissed over the phone. "And I don't want to know what the hell you're planning on doin' to 'em. You just keep it quiet and never say anything about it again to me. You hear?"

The dog moved in the back of the car and he growled at it. "Sit down, you stupid mutt." Turning his attention back to Jimmy, he taunted, "You keep on livin' in denial, Jimmy-boy."

A long pause, as though Jimmy were debating saying something, and then: "Were you just talking to a _dog,_ Vic?"

Creed was silent for a minute, wondering if Jimmy realized he'd just called him by his old name.

"Got one for the frail," he said at last, roughly. "She needs something to take her share when I'm not around, just in case."

The phone crackled for a long moment.

Slowly, the younger man spoke, his voice full of some kind of private grief. "Even if this all goes down and you keep her safe, Creed, she's not like us. She's gonna get old and weak. You gonna abandon her then?"

Another onslaught of fury. "When it comes to _abandoning_, Jimmy-boy, I think _you've_ got the market cornered."

"She's not gonna live forever, Vic. They never do."

Something in him snapped. His bones had that itch in them again, that hollow feel. "I guess I'm just can hafta hold onto her as long as I can, huh, runt?" he shot back before snapping the phone shut and throwing it on the seat next to him.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

It was eight in the morning by the time he got back to October's apartment. The dog stayed put or followed obediently, without Creed having to do more than look at him. They'd stopped on the way at a pet supply store and Creed had eyed an employee, then the mutt, and grunted pointedly, "New dog." It was really all he'd had to say. At first, the employee had tried suggesting various toys and creature-comforts, but at the big man's fast-receding patience, the kid had quickly moved to a list of necessities, handing him two huge food-bowls and pointing to a bag of dog food. When the worker had suggested a heavy leash, Creed had sneered.

"This dog is better trained than you are," he'd snapped.

Now he eased open the apartment door quietly, in case his girl was still sleeping. She was up though, curled on the couch in dove-gray leggings and a soft sweater that was too large for her and slid down off one shoulder.

Less than twenty-four hours, and just seeing her made him want to fuck her.

She was eating cereal, of course, watching a rerun of _The Twilight Zone._

"My frail has eclectic tastes," he murmured, and she jumped at the sound, whirling. "What do you think, mutt?" He looked down at the dog.

She gasped, jolting when she caught sight of the rottweiler. "Puppy!" she cried, bounding to her feet and darting at the dog. She practically flung the bowl of cereal on the counter, spilling some even though it had been nearly empty, and crouched in front of the dog. Creed was on his guard immediately—_What if Janey had fucked up? What if the dog bit her throat out? What if the lupine feral had planned it that way?_—but the dog sat rigid as October's hands flew over it, ruffling the silky ears, stroking its throat, cupping its massive jaw and shaking its face. Inevitably, its tail started wagging—to the right, not the left, which Creed knew was a good sign.

"What a pretty baby you are," October cooed. "What a _beautiful_ baby—"

Creed was aghast. "You can't call this thing _baby,_" he protested, almost horrified. "He's a fuckin' _monster."_

"You don't look like a monster, do you, boy?" she asked the rottweiler. He responded by licking her face.

Creed looked around with a sinking feeling, suddenly realizing that he would now be sharing the too-small apartment with a beast of a dog, as well. A dog who got its nasty canine-scent all over his frail.

And she hadn't even kissed him yet.

"Fuck," he said blankly.

"What's his name?" she asked smoothly, excitedly, taking the huge metal bowls from under Creed's arm.

He released them vacantly. "Doesn't have one. It's your call."

She paused, blinking up at him. "He's mine?"

Creed shook himself and curled a lip in disgust. "Sure as hell not mine."

She turned to the sink, filling one of the bowls with water. He saw the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And you don't like _Baby?"_ she asked after a moment.

He glowered before realizing she was teasing him. Then he grimaced. "This thing's a killer."

She eyed the tail-wagging beast doubtfully, one hip thrust out as she smirked.

"It is," Creed growled. "He's meant to look after you when I can't."

Slowly, she set down the two bowls in one corner, washed her hands and splashed her face in the sink, and turned toward Creed. He started when she gently wrapped her arms around his waist, cradling his huge frame against her and tucking her head against his chest. She was so _soft,_ and she was holding him with such delicacy, and in some ways it was better than the passionate response he'd been hoping for. He leaned into her, inhaling the almond-scent of her hair, the softness of her, and nipped sharply at her exposed shoulder, drawing blood. She murmured a wordless moan, stroking his spine.

"Come on," she said, releasing him slowly and tugging at his hand. "I'm guessing we need to get some food in this dog. Then, you and I are gonna shower. _Then_—" A smile graced the corner of her pretty mouth. "I'm going to show you how much I missed you."

A sudden thought struck Creed and he pulled away quickly. "That thing is _not_ sleeping on your bed," he said harshly, daring her to defy him. Didn't frails do tht sometimes? Let their damn dogs curl up on the fucking mattress with them? _Jesus. _

She grinned teasingly, though. "Of course not. There's only one animal I'm interested in sharing a bed with."

She was playful in the shower, and infinitely tender with him. Sometimes, next to her, he felt clumsy, even though he knew he could move with more precision and grace than maybe any other person on the planet. The ease with which she touched him, so lightly and generously, made him feel awkward. He wondered if he would ever get used to it, or if it would always feel foreign and unfamiliar and a little like what he imagined a drug would feel. She slid her hands and mouth over him almost worshipfully.

Jimmy's words stung and twitched in the back of his brain. _Love._ What the fuck was that? Sugar cookies and pink bunnies? Clouds and castles? Chocolate in red heart-shaped boxes? Ponies? The thought made him want to puke.

All he knew was that she was in his fucking _bones_. She was _his_, and the thought of her hurting or gone or out of his reach put a strange kind of itch deep in his marrow.

If Creed had been more accustomed to long-term pain, he might have identified it as a sort of wrenching ache.

"I don't love you,"he said abruptly.

Her hands slowed, then stilled. She tilted her head, looking up at him. "I think we already dejáed this vu."

He gripped her shoulders roughly, just pricking the skin. There would be bruises later; at the moment it didn't occur to him. He might not have cared if it had. "I _don't._ I don't know anything about that shit. I'm not made for it." His tone was caustic, angry, frustrated.

She stroked her hands up his abdomen, splaying them over his chest. Her gaze was thoughtful. "You know I love you," she said quietly. "But—again—I'm not asking you for anything." She leaned in, trusting his grip on her shoulders to keep her steady, and pressed her mouth to the taut skin over his heart.

For a moment, he wished he knew how to repay this tenderness. Instead, he pushed the thought aside, releasing her slowly so that she melted against him. He would have her whole life to learn how to pay her in kind, and he would sure as hell take the time to do so.

After all, the practicing was fun.

When they got out, bodies slick and flushed from the heat of the shower and each other, she began to move toward the bedroom, beckoning him with an outstretched hand and the kind of smile he didn't think he would have ever seen directed at him, before her. She caught at her hand and pulled her against him instead, lifting her and slinging her around to perch on his broad shoulders, one leg on either side of his thickly-muscled neck. She gasped and clutched at him, struggling to stay upright as he moved to a place where he could see them both in the bedroom mirror.

"Never been up so high, have you, frail?" he asked, his lip curled in a mocking grin as he looked at her in the mirror. She was curled over, trying to maintain a center of balance, her heavy breasts hovering just above his head. He flexed the muscles in his shoulders and neck, feeling the heat of her damp sex pressed against him. She gasped at the sensation, her fingers scrambling harder at his shoulders as she tried to hold on.

"Look at us, kitten." He nodded with his chin at the mirror. She managed a frantic glance, then paused, arrested. His huge hands braceleted her thighs, nearly covering them, and compared to him, she was tiny and—she understood now—_frail_. Fragile. Everything about her was pale and delicate, and he was an immoveable block of muscle and sinew and strength. Dark, unmarked skin, just a little rough beneath her own fragile flesh. The wet tangles of her hair draped over her arm, curling on his huge shoulder. He let his claws lengthen just a bit, feeling her jump and tense against the back of his neck as he pricked the skin and drew blood.

He stepped back swiftly, relishing her yelp of surprise and fear when he tossed her backward onto the bed and twisted, burying his face between her thighs as he moved over her. With her legs latched over his shoulders, he tongued her roughly, grinning against her when she gasped and tried to wriggle away from the harsh rasp of his tongue. He followed her, his muscles rolling under his skin as he licked one long, firm stroke upward, anchoring her legs against him as he slid over her. Her knees draped over his shoulders, then her calves pressed against them. She was bent nearly in half then, on her back with him on his knees. Slowly, carefully, he slid into her.

She gasped at the angle, the sudden fullness. He grinned, sliding one hand down the back of her knee, baring his fangs when he found the spot that made her thrash. He pressed his mouth to the inside of her calf, then bit, drawing her blood into his mouth.

At the taste of it, along with her gasp and her frantic little buck beneath him—the vulnerability of her position—he almost lost control. Instead, gripping her calves, he thrust into her again, smoothly, sinking as deep as he could into her tightness. She strained against him, nearly immobile, gasping as he ducked his head and looped her right leg over, anchoring both her calves together on one shoulder as he slid in and out of her. She reached out, groping blindly at his arms as well as she could from the difficult angle, stunned at how full she felt like this. He grunted, leaning over her, doubling her up beneath him.

"You'll let me do just 'bout anything to you, won't you, frail?" he ground out, his voice savage and pleased.

She panted, nodding, her eyes wide and desperate.

"Say you'll let me do anything to you," he demanded, slowly driving into her again.

"Anything," she managed to moan. "Anything you want—"

He slowed his speed by half, surprised when sweat broke out on his skin from the struggle for his own restraint. He tilted her hips upward a little, stroking against the front wall of her sheath. She gasped, stars dotting her vision, then gave a slow, devastated moan, clutching his slick arms as hard as she could.

"Beg for me, sugar. You want more, you gotta ask real nice."

"Please," she whispered, her voice breathless and airy. "Please, Victor—"

"Please what, frail?"

"Faster, please—harder—_please—"_

With a short, harsh laugh_—"What the lady wants"—_he let go, doubling and re-doubling his speed and rocking against her with solid, bone-jarring strokes.

"Come for me now," he ground against her. "Come for me, honey." He hissed at the slow, rippling clench of her muscles, grinding his teeth and biting back a roar as he let her tightness strangle his cock. She gasped out his name, her legs pushing against his shoulder as she came. He slammed into her just a moment longer, shuddering and releasing a short, sharp bellow when he emptied himself inside her.

He moved off of her quickly, not trusting himself to keep his weight off her bent frame. When he moved, she unfolded like a flower, gasping for breath. For a moment, he lay sprawled, remembering her taut hold on him, the tightness of her, squeezing him. She didn't move toward him, overheated and too weak to shift on the mattress. Instead, he collected her in his arms carefully, enjoying the feel of her loose limbs.

"We have a guest," she murmured sleepily after a moment. He sniffed the air, then lifted his head. The damn dog was standing in the doorway, head tilted, staring at them. Creed twisted, chucking a pillow at the animal, and it took the hit impassively. October started laughing and dropped a kiss on Creed's chest.

"Don't worry about it," she urged, fully reawakened now. "Stay here with me." Then: "Do you know where I went yesterday, after you left?"

"Where?" he asked, tangling a claw in her hair.

"The court closed on Bobby Roman's case."

He could hear the smugness in her voice and grinned, imagining a savage triumph, the gloating look she would have shot Mendohls. "I take it you guys won?"

Her smile was full-blown when she looked up at him with a challenging eyebrow. "Was there ever a doubt?"

He moved his hands from his hair down to her shoulders. She was laying half-across him on her belly, and he gently kneaded the flesh at the base of her neck. Her muscles were slim and fine under his huge hands, tense little ropes and bands of strength. He felt the bruised muscles loosen under his carefulprobing. _Valkyrie,_ he thought.

"No," he confirmed, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. Goddamn Mendohls, anyway. He was at least part of the cause behind his frail's pain. Now that she had the dog looking out for her, though, Creed could take care of that minor problem. "No doubts."

She looked at him sharply. "What's wrong?"

He clenched his jaw. a muscle twitched there. "I've gotta go somewhere."

She tilted her head, looking confused. "But you just got back—" She broke off abruptly, pausing. "Are you going to go kill someone?" she asked.

His hands tightened on her and he flared his nostrils, trying to pick up the scent of her fear or surprise or disgust. But there was nothing, and her voice was flat.

"I'm going to say this once, frail," he said after a moment. His tone was a warning, dangerous and peeved. "I'm never gonna tell you where I'm goin' or what I'm doin.' But I do a helluva lot more than just kill people. Case in point: your buddy McQuay."

She pulled a face, as though to say, _Bad example_. He didn't realize why till she spoke, though. "Do you often meet young women and have bone-rattling, brain-melting sex with them when you're on these jobs?"

He snorted. He didn't know whether to be amused or shaken—well, he'd never been shaken, but still. On one hand, the idea was ironic, entertaining. Her description of their coupling triggered a swell of savage pride.

On the other hand, _bone-rattling rape_ was a probably more accurate account of what he'd dealt out on other missions.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, concerned when he didn't respond. Then—"Oh God, you do, don't you?"

He did laugh then. To think anything else in the world would be _close_ to what he did to her.

What she did to him.

"No," he said firmly. Then, curious but unwilling to give an inch—he was what he was, dammit—he asked, "What I do—does it upset you?"

She paused, then shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't like thinking that somewhere out there, there's another person like me who's lost everything, and that it's because of you."

He couldn't prevent the growl rising in his chest, but when she laid a cool flat palm on his stomach he stilled.

"But I knew what you did before I loved with you," she concluded quietly.

He didn't move. He might not have really understood the concept the way people like Jimmy—and October—did, but he knew she was laying herself vulnerable, even after he'd clearly stated that it wasn't something he was going to give back.

"Don't you remember me telling you that I want all of you, Mr Creed?"

He gritted his teeth against the sudden ache in his bones. "I gotta go somewhere," he repeated, glowering. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. Could be months."

She blinked her huge, dark eyes at him, then pressed a soft, slow, sweet kiss over his heart. In an echo of the words she'd spoken in the shower, she said seriously, "I meant what I said before, Victor. A hundred times over. I'm not asking you for _anything_."

For the first time in a very long time, shock rippled through his system. Not that she was being sincere and candid, but that she seemed to think he was unaware of this. He realized, suddenly, that his response to her generous words had seemed caustic. He wasn't sure how to be reassuring. "I know," he managed gruffly.

In the same strangely unaccusing tone she'd used before, she asked, "Are you not planning to come back?"

His face felt tight. He'd done this poorly. He didn't know if he should be angry at her or at himself. Instead, he lifted her delicate hand with a claw and stared at the contrast between the two of them. His was tanned and calloused, nearly three times the size of hers, hot and heavy and dry. The powerful grip had killed hundreds—maybe thousands. His claws were pointed and so thick as to look discolored. Even when retracted, they were long enough to do serious damage.

And then, against his own rough hand, lined with sinew and tendon and brawn, lay her smooth cool fingers. The bones were as delicate as a bird's. Her nails were pale pink ovals with white half-moons at the base. She wore a band-aid like a ring around the middle of her smallest finger, probably from some stupid thing that wouldn't have even dented his own flesh but had somehow managed to cut through her soft skin.

He'd had plenty of toys before. Shiny cars. Tanks. Weapons, even, which he'd usually cast aside: he was his own weapon. Gorgeous women who died in minutes or days, easily-disposable. On rare ocassions, mutant females nearly as strong as he was, who fought him with everything in their lean, hard bodies.

He had _never _had something like her before.

He lifted those slender fingers and brushed his lips against each one. "I _am_ coming back," he said at last, distinctly. "Anytime I leave, you can _count_ on me coming back."

She melted against him, listening to the steady throb of his heart. For a while, she drifted in and out of a light sleep, holding onto him.

"When will you leave?" she whispered at some point.

He pressed his mouth to the crown of her head and growled his answer into her hair. "Later tonight. After dinner. After you watch some new stupid movie and probably eat half a gallon ice cream and get some sleep."

She laughed and dozed against him lazily, in spite of the fact that it was only late in the morning. Later, he made porkchops. She ate halfof one and put together a salad, which he wouldn't have touched if he were starving. Rabbit-food. They sat and watched some ridiculous movie which he couldn't remember the name of, and she asked, "What will I do while you're gone?"

He tried to look nonchalant. "You've got…fuckin'…_Cujo_ here to protect you."He gestured with a beer at the dog, who lifted his head from his paws and looked quizzical.

She laughed. "I didn't mean _who will protect me._ Believe it or not, I _am _fairly competent in that arena. I just mean, life seems boring after Victor Creed has shaken things up a bit. And—Cujo? Really? I was thinking more like—"

"You're not naming him _Baby."_

She laughed again. "Of course not. I was teasing. But in the book, poor Cujo gets rabies and attacks almost all the people he loves—d'you really wanna name my dog after him?"

They shared a bowl of ice cream. He still didn't like the stuff: too sweet, and dairy besides. But she loved it, for some reason, and as long as she was willing to spoon it into his mouth, laughing, he'd let her. It was entertaining to watch—she was so careful not to bump against his fangs. The look of concentration on her face was comical, ironic. He was a man who'd taken bricks to the face, and she was worried about clinking his teeth with a goddamn spoon.

When he sat lazily on the couch she moved to the floor in front of him, calling, "Cujo," till the dog came over and lay his heavy head in her lap. When her hand stroked between the dog's ears and his eyes glazed over drowsily, Victor was almost jealous. But then she leaned back against his knee and he stroked his hand through her hair, over her scalp, and watched her melt.

Again, that surge of adrenaline and dominance, strength. He was so fuckin' _powerful. _And God, if watching her didn't make his bones twinge.

Later, he took the damn dog out, then locked the door and swung her into his arms and back to the bedroom.

"Girl could get used to this," she murmured against him sleepily.

He frowned, tense and conflicted, before tossing her down on the mattress and rolling her over to the wall to make space. To his surprise, she laughed at the roughness of his movements, then pouted. "My bed was so cold without you last night," she added. "Now who knows how long you'll have to be gone?"

"Too long," he grunted, climbing in beside her. She wrapped him up in her arms and legs.

"Promise to wake me before you leave?" she whispered.

For a moment, he lay silent, still. Every muscle was tense under her fingers as she stroked him liesurely, soothingly.

It wasn't till she was half-asleep and thought she was dreaming that he said quietly, "I will."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: The "dejá vu" remark was stolen from some random BtVS episode. I just love it. :) **

**I am thinking of posting both of these last chapters together in a single installment. I heart the next chapter, but the conclusion/epilogue is giving me crap, so be gentle. :)**

**Coming after the weekend sometime…**

**Chapter VI: The Killer, Part IV: Creed returns with some more prezzies. None of these are things you keep in the house, although there is some jewelry involved. October shows her claws and isn't so admirable. Violence, Tragic Melodrama, and Sentimental Hogwash: you're forewarned.**

**Chapter VII: The Victor [Conclusion & Epilogue]: In which everyone (well, Vic and October, anyway) gets what they want. Violence and Gore, SMUT (implied and explicit), and SERIOUS Sentimental Hogwash (rated SH+++ at the beginning of the chapter). Ugh, I am sorry for any OCCness that may occur. *cringes away from thrown tomatoes***


	20. Chapter VI: The Killer, Part IV

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Killer, Part IV **

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, implied violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Weeks passed.

Seven weeks and four days, to be precise.

She took Cujo on walks in the evenings, which were steadily getting colder. She bought new underwear, since at least half of hers had been destroyed—or had mysteriously disappeared—in the course of the last few weeks. She bought a new phone and a new table, new sheets since both of the old sets were stained with bloody smears and ripped.

To be honest, she was just glad she didn't have to buy a new bed.

She started working again, but cut back on her hours. The kids' summer reading program at the library had ended before Creed left, so she spent some of her Sunday mornings at the soup kitchen in the basement of St. Luke's, which focused its attention specifically on outreach for teens, families, and mutants. Dean seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet, but Logan had stopped by a handful of times to see if she needed anything. Ocassionally, he brought Marie, who October thought was charming and who reminded her of her sisters. They'd been sweet, and she had thrown together some spaghetti—about the only thing she trusted herself to cook—and had apologized to Logan for not having solid meat in the apartment. Logan had brushed it off and brought steak filets the next time he'd come. Marie had cooked them, to October's chagrin, but they'd tasted delightful and she'd been happy to have the company. At one point, Logan had admitted that Victor had called him, alternately cussing him out, threatening his life and the lives of his friends, taunting him, and making him swear repetitively to check on her. With the Roman case won, he'd thought that the FoH would send someone to mess with her.

At one point, while Logan was sitting at the shoddy little table across from October, who was making a salad, Marie turned from the stove to ask shyly, inquisitively, "How is it that you live with 'im, Toby? Doesn't he just drive you mad?"

She'd laughed. "Not any madder then I drive him," she teased. Then, "Besides, when you love someone, you love all of them."

"D'you think he loves you back, Toby? I don't mean to be insensitive, shugah, but he doesn't strike me as the type to know the definition of the word, much less say it."

Logan had twitched, looking uncomfortable and more than a little cranky at the topic, and Toby had grinned at him.

"You know, you might be right on some counts, Marie," she said quietly, smiling as she shredded the lettuce in her hands. "And I'm not about to ask him for something he doesn't want to give. But I'll tell you something else." She looked bemused, wistful. "He sleeps me with against the wall."

Marie looked a little confused and vaguely horrified, as though October had said something dirty. Even Logan looked somewhat scandalized, and Toby laughed.

"I mean when we sleep together—actually _sleep—_even if he comes in later than me and I'm already dead to the world—he moves me over so that I'm on the wall-side of the bed, and he's between me and the door. If anyone comes in, they'd have to go through him to get to me."

Marie tilted her head, on the brink of understanding. If it had been Bobby, or Logan, any other boy she knew, she would have understood immediately, and thought the gesture was sweet. She couldn't reconcile it with what she knew of Creed, though: the image was incongruous and didn't make sense.

October could see she wasn't comprehending, that the idea of what it meant was just outside her grasp. The younger woman's delicate brow was furrowed as she examined the meat on the stove.

"The night I lost my sisters," Toby said quietly, taking on her story-teller voice, not wanting to spell things out too explicitly, wanting her to _think,_ "Bethie hugged me before she left. I think she knew I was having a hard time with her being all grown up. She buried her face in my shoulder and said: _almonds._ It's the scent of the shampoo and body wash that I use."

Marie paused in her work, turning from the stove and leaning a hip against the cupboards, looking both confused and intrigued by the seemingly random response. Logan was trying to look disinterested and failing miserably.

October smiled. "Then she told me…that she could recognize me by the smell of my clothes. She said she could close her eyes and pick me out of a crowd just by the smell of my shirt." She shrugged and smiled wistfully. "I knew she meant to say, _I love you_."

Marie's eyes glistened suddenly and she turned back to the meat she was pan-grilling, absorbing herself in the task and carefully avoiding eye contact, but Toby could see her lip tremble. Without comment, the blond woman continued to shred the lettuce into the bowl, but then Logan reached out and closed a hand over hers, just briefly. Her eyes flicked up to his—concerned, brotherly eyes, warm and questioning and confused all at once. She curled one corner of her mouth at him, and to Logan, it was all he needed to know.

Creed might be lying to himself straight through, but his woman understood everything she needed to.

In spite of both brothers' concerns, the two months passed with almost-painful quietness. October found that Cujo was a great companion, but her home still felt looming and empty without the huge feral filling doorways and leaning against walls or countertops. Having the tall, elegant Rogue and compactly-muscled Logan present sometimes during the day made the apartment seem a little less large. One night, however, October had slept on the couch in the living room because she couldn't bear to be in the suddenly-huge bed alone, and the silence and aching emptiness of the apartment reminded her of how lonely she had felt when her sisters had disappeared. The only difference was that this time, she wasn't moving through life like a ghost.

When Creed came back, it was four in the morning. He slipped in with an extra key he'd had cut before he left. When he slid in, Cujo was waiting there, his head tilted. Recognizing the scent and sight of the Alpha, the dog turned away and padded back to October's room, where he curled up outside the door, his big brown eyes watching as Creed eased down the hall.

When he crept into her bedroom, she was dreaming, shifting against the sheets. The air was pregnant with her fear. He slid a warm clawed hand over her forehead, and she jolted awake, her throat catching in a gasping choke.

"It's me," he growled softly. "I've got you."

She fairly catapaulted out of the bed and into his arms. He steadied her, his hands finding her lower back, then slowly wrapping around her.

"I got you, frail," he repeated into her hair. He didn't understand when or how those words had become a comfort instead of a threat.

He also didn't care.

"You're back," she murmured, stating the obvious, but the gratitude in her voice was nearly painful. She smelled like almonds and sleep and _relief_, but the remnants of her terror still clung to the molecules in the air.

"Said I'd be," he rumbled against her gruffly. "Didn't want to wake you yet though."

"I'm glad you did," she murmured against him. "Come to bed with me. I missed you."

She was finally drifting off again when the sun rose, her hand gently cupping his jaw. He clawed his way carefully through the knotted strands of brassy hair. He'd hoped she would sleep through the night so he could wake her early.

He had things to show her.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

October woke to the smell of pork-sausage and beer.

She didn't even take the time to pop her joints this morning; instead, she slithered from the bed and sprinted lightly down the hall. He heard and smelled her coming but stayed still at the counter, letting her embrace him from behind, her soft cheek pressed against his back.

"How long are you staying?" she asked, peppering the muscled planes of his back with kisses.

"As long as I can," he said. He'd called his primary contact on the way out of town almost two months before and told them he was done with the McQuay case. As far as he was concerned, they could send someone else if they wanted to do any more clean-up with the anarchist. He'd also told the agent that he was going to be much more picky about what missions he agreed to from now on.

"No kids," he'd said roughly. He didn't care about how old his hits were—not really. He'd killed kids for the sheer fucking _fun_ of it before. But the thought of, somehow, Toby finding him with the blood of children on his hands—she'd be horrified. Repulsed. She'd think of her sisters. She'd cry. She wouldn't want to touch him anymore.

It raised his hackles.

"Fuck that, Creed," the agent had snapped, irritated beyond belief. "Everyone is someone's kid. Next thing, you'll be saying you don't do people with families."

"You can't afford to make demands on me," Creed had snarled. "Talk to your boss. He's lucky to have me working for him at all, and he knows it."

The contact went silent. Then, slowly: "Is this because of that girl we've been hearing about? That Morgan broad?"

Victor had gone completely silent.

"Well? _Is it?"_

"If anything happens to her," he said slowly, "anything at all, whether it's your fault or the Friends of Humanity or a fuckin' random mugger on the street, I will hunt down everyone in our unit and rip them apart. Do you understand me?"

Anyone who knew Creed knew that his quiet, controlled threats were remarkably more dangerous than his berserker rage. When he was in the grip of bloodlust, death could take anywhere from seconds to a couple hours.

But when he was gunning for you for a reason, you were lucky if you died in less than a day.

Life dragged on past the point where you were begging him to end it. People who'd worked with him, who'd watch him take out some poor bastard while he was wrapped up in this cold anger, said that during the last few hours most couldn't even beg for death anymore. Creed's torture pushed you beyond such things.

"We could—maybe put a watch on her," the agent had said hesitantly. All thoughts of putting a hit out on the bitch had evaporated.

Creed had grunted noncommitally. He wasn't sure about some bastard he didn't know keeping an eye on October. Instead, he had ended the call abruptly and put one in to his little brother. Jimmy might hate _him,_ but he had a soft spot for women in general, and he'd take care of Creed's frail if he thought she was in danger.

Now he turned in her arms, facing her, removing her arms from his body with something like gentleness—almost—and moving toward another cupboard and pouring her a bowl of cereal. She watched, wide-eyed, when he dished out two plates of sausage links: three for her, and more than she could reasonably count for him.

"Eat," he ordered, then paused before setting the dishes down. "You got a new table,"he added. He leaned on it and it wobbled precariously. "I don't think it's gonna last out the week," he added, grinning and raising an eyebrow challengingly at her. She blushed, and some of the tension drained out of him. "Eat, and then get dressed. We have things to do."

She eyed him quizzically but turned to her breakfast, wolfing down the cereal and groaning with delight over the breakfast sausages. "These are delicious. Thank you."

He grunted, watching her eat. Soon, she'd be eating better food than this, every day—at least, if things went according to plan. He'd put some meat on her bones. The woman was probably half-malnourished on her current diet of cereal and fuckin' hot pockets. He hoped that after a few weeks with him, she wouldn't be so thin, or bruise so easily.

He heard the sounds of her showering quickly, then dashing across the hall to slide into jeans. Less than ten minutes later—he had to admit he liked a frail who could get shit done in a timely manner—she was in front of him, her tangly wet haiir clipped back and her shoes already on her feet. She slipped her keys into her pocket and rocked on her heels in front of him.

"Where are we going?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Still, he could tell she was worried. Tense. Hell, he could _smell_ it. He didn't blame her—he knew he was acting his scariest.

He wanted to put her at ease, but didn't have any idea how. Besides, she'd need all the adrenaline she could get for this.

"Come on, and stop asking questions," he said shortly, moving toward the door. He waited as she locked it behind them, her brow furrowed.

When they reached the curb, she gasped when she saw the blood-red Corvette. He unlocked the door and pushed her unceremoniously into the passenger side before moving around to get in on his own side.

"Jesus, Victor," she whispered, sounding scared. Her fear was astringent in the air. "_What_ is going on?"

He felt itchy, edgy, but it was different than when he was spoiling for a fight. Another person could have told him the feeling was anxiety, but he couldn't place it on his own. It was wholly unfamiliar to him, something he hasn't felt this side of the century, not since Jimmy was a kid.

"Shut your mouth and don't ask so many fuckin' questions," he snapped, and then hated himself just a bit for it. She fell silent though, and he didn't answer her further, but continued to drive. They reached the outskirts of town and kept driving, and the scent of her fear got heavier and heavier in the car till he rolled down the window, looking for some sort of relief.

When they pulled up to an abandoned barn and he cut the engine, her panic assaulted his senses. "Victor?"

He turned to her in the car, catching both her hands in his, biting the fingertips gently. Had he watched any movies, he might have understood that normal people offered comfort for through hugs and murmured words and caresses. Instead, he lapped at her fragile fingers like a cat, nipping lightly, caressing the fingertips with his tongue. Then, without saying a word, he exited the car, gesturing that she should follow him. She scrambled out of the low sportscar, jogging after him, matching three strides to each of his. "I know you like to scare me," she panted, "but this—"

She froze in the doorway of barren building, empty of all but hay, three chairs, and three men. The men were tied to the chairs with coils of thin nylon cord that had been knotted so tightly that their wrists were bleeding. Two of them had blue-tinged fingers. They looked hungry and haggard and all of them sported deep bruises. One looked like Victor had gouged him across his left cheek with his claws.

"I didn't do anything but what it took to get 'em here," Creed rumbled, pacing between the three men, yanking on their bindings. "And to get some information." _Well, and have a little bit of fun. _He imagined that Blume, at least, was sporting a ruptured spleen, and they'd all be bleeding internally by now. Hemorrhaging, if he was lucky. He'd been careful to keep most of the damage where October couldn't see, and nothing that would kill them in less than a couple days, but they were all looking decidely more puffy and swollen and discolored than they had a week earlier.

"Victor," she whispered, her voice fragile in the cool autumn air. Her fear smelled heavy around him, quilt-like in its thickness. "What _is_ this?"

"This," he said, burying a claw in one man's hair and yanking his head up with it, "is Skeleton Briggs." The man turned a hollow eye on her. The other had been swollen shut. "He's a mutant and, mostly, a thief. He fucks with anything mechanical. Like pin-tumbler locks. Which is a modern door-lock." He paused, turning his eyes to October. "He can key in through any mechanical lock wiithout damaging it."

She looked confused, and her fear was still coming off her in waves. "Victor?"

"This here's Johnny Oliver." He placed a massive claw on the back of Oliver's neck, his extended claws sinking into the flesh. Oliver winced, looking momentarily panicked. "Johnny Oliver is usually hired by mob bosses and human trafficking coordinators. He knows how to keep kids quiet, how to transport them without anyone giving 'em a second glance."

Her eyes widened.

"Interestingly, both these guys were hired by this guy." Heslapped a heavy hand down on the head of the man with the gouges in his face. The man's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. He was so far gone that he didn't even flinch at Creed's rough handling. "This is Marcus Blume. He's a friend of Mendohls and a contracter for the Friends of Humanity. He specializes in getting rid of people.

"Another interesting thing: all of these guys were hired on within months of each other. And they were all hired on about two and a half years back."

She sucked in a breath. Her face had gone white, even her lips leeched of color. Her dark eyes were huge in her face. "They're the ones…but…how do you know? Are you sure?"

He leaned over, sinking his claws intoBlume's scalp till they clicked on bone. He dragged the man's head up. "Tell Ms Morgan what you told me, Marky-mark."

A terrified gasped tore out of the man's throat, catching painfully, but he didn't open his eyes. "Ww-we t-took them," he sobbed out. "We h-had to. She was putting up too much of a fight!" The last word was a yelp when Creed jerked his fingers out of the man's scalp.

"Atta boy," Victor sneered.

October stared around the barn. "What happened?" she asked at last, directing her question at Johnny Oliver, who happened to be the closest, and the most cognizant. "What happened that night?"

Her voice was so lost and empty.

Johnny didn't answer. He stared at her with baleful, bitter eyes. Creed moved toward him, intending to slug him in the jaw, but October had already crossed the room and thrown her full weight into a ringing right cross.

"_Tell me!" _

Her fist cracked against the man's cheekbone and she stumbled sideways with her own momentum. Oliver's chair tipped over with the force of her blow and he crashed to the side, grunting when he fell on his arm.

Creed caught her around the waist, steadying her, before jerking Oliver's chair back into an upright position. Blood trickled out of the bastard's mouth, and Creed felt a twinge of pride. Poor form, but excellent contact. _Damn straight._ His frail wasn't some pansy-ass open-palmed slapper.

The kidnapper spat a mouthful of blood out at her feet. Before Creed could send him flying a second time, he opened his mouth to speak.

"We were told she needed a 'warning.'" Though he was looking at October, it was clear that he was talking to Creed, not her. "The FoH wanted someone to nab the chiclets. No trace. They didn't want the mess of keeping the kids. It's easier for the feds to track'em when they're still kickin', easier to get caught. Best to discard 'em soon as possible, let the girl wonder. Maybe if she thought they were still around, she'd be on her best behavior. If not, the hope was she'd be too scared to do anything."

October was breathing raggedly, shoulders heaving. Her eyes were focused, intent. Creed recognized the look: it was one he'd seen on his brother's face when he was intent on a kill, one he knew was probably often on his own.

"So Blume here hired me and Skeleton and the three of us kept watch on the house. It was fuckin' _days,"_ he spat. "Then, suddenly, there's this little ten minute window." He sneered at October. "We moved in like a well-oiled machine."

Victor watched her hands tighten, the knuckles growing white. He wondered how long it would be before she hauled back and slugged one of these bastards again, maybe broke some bones.

For himself, it was taking all his strength to hold back from skinning this disrespectful asshole's face off. He knew it was something that October needed to have the power over.

"We watched the boy leave and got upstairs in less than thirty seconds. Skelly got the door open in another half-minute."

Creed watched as she made the connection and realized that she hadn't left the door unlocked. Her eyes widened and her breathing hitched. She quivered like a taut bowstring.

"The skinny little one was at the table working on homework—Blume chloroed her right away. She flailed a bit, knocked over a chair. The oldest one, who'd been out with the boy, heard the noise and came out, askin' if the kid was okay. She saw us and hollered bloody-murder before Blume got a hold on her and put her under too.

"The sounds kinda warned that freckly-faced one though. She came running out of her room with a fuckin' lamp in her hand. Got Blume across the face while he was still druggin' the older one. Cut him up a bit—bastard was pissed. He backhanded her—which," he added, cutting an angry glance at Blume, as though he were to blame for their current situation, "was fuckin' stupid. She hit the drywall hard and cracked it through, then tumbled out into the kitchen and living room, knocking shit over. There were a buncha flowerpots by the window and fire escape—she knocked 'em all over. Big pink flowers and dirt everywhere. It ended up being a fucking chase around the whole goddamn room. Made a fucking mess. It was _supposed_ to be a _clean_ job.

"I had Skelly haul the two chloroformed kids out, and while Blume was busy chasing the chit, I tripped her. She went flying; kitchen wall hard. Knocked a picture down. When I picked her up she was half-unconcious, but when she realized I was takin her to the door she tried to hang on to anything she could grab to stop me." He paused long enough for October to remember the bloody blue fingernail on the floor by the door. "Gotta say," he added with a smirk, "She was a spitfire. Couldn't fucking get her to shut up, so I broke her goddamn neck right there in the hall."

Creed watched with quiet, predatory eyes, pacing behind the three men. Blume didn't even seem conscious of his presence, but Skeleton Briggs flinched and twitched, trying to keep him in sight. He reeked of fear and piss. Johnny was the most composed of the three, but Creed could've told the boy he was playing the game all wrong. Oliver thought he was psyching Toby out with his ddetailed commentary, but he was only fueling the fire.

"Threw all three of 'em in the trunk while Blume was carving up your door. Of course you had to know who was taking 'em, or it wouldn't do any good. We drove off in less than five minutes. You could tell when the other two chiclets woke up and realized their sister was dead, 'cause you could hear the screaming through the car."

"And then?" Her voice was quiet, measured.

He shrugged as well as he could with his restraints. "Drove for a few hours. Took 'em out in a field. Put the two living ones down on their knees and shot 'em in the head. Buried 'em."

For a long moment, October was silent. Creed circled Johnny Oliver, staring down at the kidnapper and stroking his chin with a thoughtful claw.

"Where?" she asked at last.

Oliver's lip curled back. "Why the fuck would I tell you that?"

"Where?" she asked again.

He sneered. "Is it hard for you?" he mocked. "Not knowing where they are. Not knowing if I'm telling the truth. Maybe they're still out there, poor kids on the street, trying to find their way back home."

She advanced, grabbing his chin in her hand and forcing him to look up at her. "You tell me where they are, or I swear to God, I will beat you to death with your own rib-bones."

Creed paused in his pacing, raising his eyebrows and casting an impressed glance at his frail. He'd have to remember that threat, maybe put it into practice sometime.

Oliver's throat worked, as though he was going to spit at her again, but her hand suddenly slid forward, pinching his cheeks and lips closed, crushing the soft battered flesh against his teeth.

"If you open that mouth, it better be to tell me what I want to hear," she hissed.

His eyes got a little wider and he swallowed. He was still damaged and bruised enough—and hyperaware of the huge feral mutant watching them from the shadows—to know that too much bravado would not get him where he wanted to be.

She released his mouth abruptly, stepping back, and he said, "Hawthorne Nature Reserve in Chataqua. Five hours from here, just off the interstate." He paused, then added, "Your muscle over here already knows. Blume told him two days ago."

She looked at Creed, eyes suddenly flooded with tears, and he said, "I got men out there as soon as he spilled. They found three bodies that look to be about the right age. They've got a rush on DNA records right now." A few days later, he would realize that it hadn't even fazed him when Oliver had referred to him as October's "muscle."

This was apparently news to Johnny Oliver. Skeleton rested his head against the back of the chair and moaned as though wishing it were over, and Blume was too far gone to even hear the conversation, much less respond.

Oliver, however, looked panic at the idea that his borrowed time might be almost over.

"Don't you want to hear the rest of it?" he demanded sneeringly,twisting his bound hands urgently. "Don't you wanna know what they said? If they cried?"

Her face turned cold and still. "Tell me everything."

He grinned mockingly. Blood had stained his teeth. "I think I should get something for telling, you ball-busting bitch."

Her eyes narrowed. "Like what?"

"Like a free pass out of here," he snapped.

"Oh, you'll be leaving," Creed interrupted mildly, flashing a fang in a sardonic sneer. "It's just up to Ms Morgan how many pieces you leave in." When the captive paled, Victor added, "I suggest telling the lady what she wants to know. She might be inclined to be merciful." He bared his teeth gloatingly. "Then again, what do I know?"

She looked at Oliver evenly, and he gaped for a moment.

"The two who were still alive cried," he said slowly. "The littlest one fought like a wildcat, even with her tears. I actually got a good bite taken out of me by her. Still gotta scar. The oldest one just—she just fuckin' shivered the whole time. She wanted you, wanted to know if we'd hurt you. She _begged_ us not to. They held hands when we pushed 'em through the field. All in all, 'nspite of the snivelling, they were pretty damn brave for little kids. They _knew_ they were gonna die and never be found and they were still tough. They held onto each other when we shot 'em. And they were watching us. Blume was pissed—he just wanted it over. He hadn't expected it to be such a mess. Skelly was miserable with the whole thing. Couldn't stomach it. But I made 'em do it right, okay? No execution-type killer, not me. When you kill someone, you should take it serious. Look in their eyes. S'how I do it."

She stared at him. Her eyes looked heavy and empty, but her shoulders were thrown back with strength.

"I can say the end was quick," Johnny Oliver said, sounding a little desperate. It was obvious he didn't know if he was pleasing the woman or not. "You don't wanna leave a mess with wounded kids. Shot 'em clean in the head, then the heart. Buried 'em deep, right where they lay. They're all together, at least."

There was a sudden, absurd buzzing noise—it sounded bizarre in the solemn, macabre silence of the barn. Creed took out his phone, which had been set on vibrate. "Whaddaya want? …You're sure? All three of 'em?...You keep 'em there. We'll be down when we're done here, f'she wants. Otherwise I'll call you."

He snapped the phone shut and met October's eyes. Her gaze was so hollow that for a moment he thought she was going to crumble in on herself, maybe faint. Of course she didn't—she was tougher than that.

He wouldn't have taken up with a frail who couldn't hold her own.

"We got 'em, frail," he said after a moment, his voice a low rumble.

He flicked his eyes to the three men at various stages of distress. Blume stared at the floor blankly, completely uncomprehending. Skeleton twisted against his bindings and mewled like a child. To be honest, Creed was surprised he hadn't broken further, just watching what was happening to Blume. In spite of his role in this plot, he was really just a petty thief, unused to the ways of torture. Johnny Oliver looked frantic, but managed to hold it in for the most part.

"You got a choice here, sugar," Victor said, turning his eyes back toward the small blond in front of him. "These boys aren't leaving here alive. I promise you that. S'up to you if you want to do 'em by your own hand, or if it's up to me." He pulled a thick revolver out of his waistband. October wouldn't have recognized it even if she'd been fully-functioning—it was a strange, sleek model with a double-barrel, snub-nosed, a model that wasn't exactly on the market. The sheer size of it would have required both her hands to hold it up, but he thought the kick was controlled enough that she'd be okay if she held it right up to the bastards' heads. He'd made sure he'd brought her something that wouldn't tear her arms off or dislocate 'em.

He held it out to her, handle-first, and she took it in her hands, feeling the metal—cool on one side, warm where it had been pressed against his skin. It was like a living thing, heavy in her palms.

She looked up at Marcus Blume, who was drooling pathetically, and Skeleton Briggs, who was whimpering and flickering his eyes at everything but her. They were broken, afraid, and for a moment, something like pity flickered in her eyes. For a second, Victor thought she might protest, to say this wasn't what she wanted, to beg him to let them go.

Then Johnny Oliver, too terrified to be silent, lashed out, opening his shit-eating mouth and deciding for her.

"If you'd kept your mutie-loving whore-mouth shut in the first place, instead of sucking off this asshole and every other freak you came across, your sisters would still be alive instead of kissing worms."

In a stride, she was in front of him, backhanding him solidly with the double-barrel. There was the sharp snap of something breaking, and blood and teeth flew as he crashed to the ground once more on his other side, choking and gasping, his eyes rolling back in his head. She crouched down in front of him as he grayed out for a second, his vision a haze of bright, hot pain. His jaw and cheekbone were already swelling and purple—the relatively fragile bones had snapped under her strike.

"You're a jackass," she said coldly. "But I don't have the patience to give you what you deserve."

She set the gun down carefully, about a foot from his face, and rose up. Shoulders back, head held high on her slender throat, she walked regally from the barn, a vision of composure. When she opened the door, the bright afternoon light haloed in around her, and she disappeared in it.

Creed grinned and popped his knuckles, letting his claws extend slowly. "She's a classy lady," he said conversationally, once October was out of earshot. "I knew she wasn't gonna do it, but I had to give her the option, right?" He pulled a mock-contemplative face. "I think they call it _closure."_

"N-no!" Johnny Oliver sputtered. The words were thick and slurred, delivered through his broken jaw, and bloody froth sprayed out when he spoke. He was callng for October, but with the muffling of his shattered face, there was no way she would have been able to hear—much less understand—his inaudible whining. "Don't let him—please, just shoot me—"

"She's above all this muck." Creed grinned. "Not like us. S'all a part of her charm." He placed a heavy-booted foot delicately on the man's broken cheek, stifling the mewls and making the man's eyes roll with pain. He looked around at the other two, who were in various states of consciousness.

"Looks like we're up for a little one-on-one time, boys," he grinned exultantly, the lines of his face folding into something infinitely more animalistic.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

She didn't say a word when he got in the car. When he asked if she wanted to see her sisters' bodies, she nodded mutely and stared out the window.

"They're not in good condition, frail," he said after a moment. "You sure about this?"

"I need to see them."

Even with his acute hearing, he almost didn't hear her. He hesitated, wondering if this was wise. But he'd vowed to acquiesce to her wishes in this.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. Her heart was so slow that there were a few times he thought she was sleeping. A sideways glance consistently revealed that she was awake, however. She gazed hollow-eyed out the window, her cheek cradled in the shoulder-strap of her seatbelt.

When they reached the facility—a regular-looking medical office, though it was federally-owned and operated—Creed led her silently down to the coroner's office.

"Ms Morgan," the coroner said quietly, reaching out to shake her hand. He was a solemn-eyed, wiry old man with large glasses and kind eyes. "My name is Giovanni Spinoglio. I've long followed your work. It's a shame to meet you under such circumstances."

She shook his hand dully. "It might be good for me," she said at last, her voice listless and distracted.

Spinoglio smiled sadly and patted her hand before turning and leading them to the autopsy room. "Mr Creed has arranged with out superiors to have your sisters quietly buried wherever you wish. Their files will be updated accordingly, and the process will be kept hushed. All public records will be updated without press involvement, so that we can avoid the—ah, the _messiness_—of unanswered questions in the media."

"I appreciate it," she murmured.

Spinoglio paused, his handle on the door. "They're in the dry decay state, Ms Morgan. Do you know what that means? I want you to be prepared."

She shook her head silently.

"When a body is buried, if it is properly embalmed, the decaying process can take several years. Your sisters, however, were not embalmed and were—ah, left to the elements—as is natural—and the process was much quicker than usual in these modern times. One of the last parts of the process is dry decay, also known as skeletonization. Your sisters are in the early stages of this process. All of the soft tissue has been…removed…from the body. There is still some flesh—dried and mummified, of course—but mostly it is simply their skeletons, beginning to break down."

She looked at him blankly. "I don't think you should be telling people all this."

He flushed. "I _am_ sorry, dear girl. I simply want you to be prepared. You—you might not recognize them, my dear."

"I would recognize them no matter what," she said quietly, and slipped into the room as soon as Spinoglio opened the door.

Creed followed her, slow and quiet. The girls had been removed from their single grave as carefully as possible. Where sinew and skin still existed, it was stretched dry and tight on their bones. They were guant and hard-looking, blackened by the previous stages of putrefaction. Their clothes clung to them in brown-stained rags. One of the girls lay on one table; on the other, two were tangled together: Bethie and Genevieve, the oldest and youngest, if Johnny Oliver's story were true.

October stood between the two tables, one hand resting on each. She pinched a piece of fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. Color had long ago leeched from it, and dirt had stained it dark. Pieces of soil crumpled off in her fingers; the fibers unwove in her hands.

"It's amazing," she whispered. "How clear it all seems looking back. I can remember exactly what they were wearing. Bethie was in blue—she always wore blue. It was a new shirt she'd bought just for this date. She'd known this boy for years, and I just think of all the stories there could have been if she lived. Maybe they would have stayed together or broken up. She would have gone to college. She could have been an art major, or a med student. She could have been a veterinarian or an accountant or a teacher or—well, she could have been anything." She laughed, but the sound was like breaking glass. "There's so many things—I mean, there's so many teachers they didn't get to complain about, tests they didn't get to fail. Books they didn't get to read. And they'll never eat pancakes or drink juice or braid their hair or sneeze or sit in the sun again."

She brushed her hands lightly over the two entangled corpses' faces. Dried skin flaked off under her light, reverant touch. She turned to the other one, her hand fluttering down on the brown bones of the girl's fingers. They moved dangerously beneath her light touch, and Creed hoped her sisters wouldn't fall apart under her gentle hands.

Her hand slipped to the wrist. She whispered, "Natalie always wore this—"

He saw a muddy silver glint and recognized suddenly—sharply—the charm bracelet he'd snapped off October's wrist, months back. The letters thumped together in dirty chunks, but he remembered what they'd spelled from when she'd told Bobby Roman, what he'd had reattached to her own jewelry.

_Sisters._

It was enough for October. Her carefully-controlled expression crumbled slowly. She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, crushing her lips against her knuckles and teeth until the tang of blood hit the air. Tears filled her eyes and with a soft, shuddering sob, she sank over the corpse, pressing her lips to the dry, dirty skull. Her hands, tense and outstretched, cradled the dead girl's head; she pressed gasping, tearful kisses to the forehead and the scalp.

"Mr Creed—" Spinoglio spoke in hushed tones. "I hate to think—the child's neck was broken; her head could come off—"

Victor moved forward in an instant, prying her hands away from the skull with hands that had suddenly learned the art of gentleness. She struck out at him, blindly, her gasps melting into a high, keening wail. He held her shoulders firmly as she clouted him in the chest, striking him—futilely—again and again. She fought him harder than he could remember her ever fighting him, even when he'd held her pinned against the wall and threatened her life; even when he'd flipped her in their bed and intended to beat and rape her. She thrashed against him, her hair whipping in his eyes as she struggled against him, a mindless mass of soft skin and fragile bones—something mortal and delicate and, he thought, slowly becoming dust and dirt as well.

He held her easily and sank with her to the floor when she gave up and wept like a broken doll.

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

**A/N: I wish I could claim the beauty of October's story about Bethie, and about understanding love when it's not put into words. Unfortunately…that beautiful, beautiful line is the property of the great Sherman Alexie, from **_**The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.**_** For beautiful reading, check it out.**

**I have also done some heavy reconstructive surgery on the conclusive chapter, so it won't actually come out till tomorrow. I just felt the other draft was way too…mundane. So the content matches the description I gave before, but might be in a different order. The first half is mundane and boring…then we get Violence and Gore, Smut, and finally, SH+++++. Sometimes I think I drew it out for way too long for an epilogue. Anyway, hold your breath—we're goin' in! :)**

**Coming soon….Chapter VII: The Victor.**


	21. Chapter VII: The Victor Conclusion

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter VII: The Victor [Conclusion]**

**Rating: M for lots of cussing, threatened violence, and delightfully dark sex.**

**Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VCOC, "Origins"-style, thankyouverymuch. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment!**

**Disclaimer: If I couldwrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

She had gathered herself together more quickly than he thought. He didn't know if that was good or not. Her composure seemed like a cracking veneer.

He had her sign some paperwork, and finally led her back out to the car in silence. She leaned against the cool glass of the window, her face looking flushed and overheated. Once they hit the highway, she started shivering violently. Her teeth rattled; her shoulders and even her legs trembled. He thought her body might shake itself apart.

His own ineptitude infuriated him. In his past experiences, when a woman went into shock, you were done with them. You killed them, or shoved them aside and left them for dead. Now he watched her out of the corner of his eye, apprehensive for her welfare and furious with himself.

Everything in him felt hollow and straining. He thought his bones were snapping under his skin.

He should have thought this through better. She might be tough as hell, but she hadn't had a century to get used to shit like this. Hell, she wasn't _him;_ she didn't have the natural lust for murder, or the cultivated disregard for corpses. Just because she was a Valkyrie didn't mean she was prepared to face her sisters' kidnappers and newly-discovered corpses all in one day—and hell, he'd _sprung _it on her.

He wrestled with the thought that one day she would be just like them: dead and drying in the ground.

"It's over," he rumbled at last. Some of his anger creeped into his voice, but she didn't seem to notice. She didn't say anything, in fact.

"October," he repeated, watching her shiver, hating himself savagely for just a moment. "It's _over_."

He reached across and unbuckled her seatbelt, gripping her waist and pulling her to his side. She shivered against him, her scent strangely clean of the spiced aroma of fear or the salt of grief. He raked a claw through her tangled hair before draping his arm around her, pulling her even more tightly against him and stroking her side and hip.

She fell asleep with her head on his thigh, curled in a ball on the seat. He kept his eyes on the road, ocassionally flicking a glance down at her, glad she'd stopped her shuddering. When they got back, he carried her into the apartment, kicking the door open softly, glaring at the _Courtesy of FoH_ carved in the wood.

They were squaring all this shit away in the next two weeks—maybe less, he promised himself, and then he was getting her the fuck out of this goddamn place.

She woke up when he set her down on the mattress. Cujo sat at the foot of the bed, his head tilted as he stared at his mistress. Even the goddamn dog looked distraught.

"Where am I going to bury them?" she murmured, sounding shattered.

He lay down with her. "Sleep now. We'll figure everything out tomorrow."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

She was quiet throughout the following days.

He didn't know what to do with her. Not really. She went about her normal routine: eating frozen hot pockets, sitting on the countertops. But there was a silence to her, a quietness he didn't understand. He wondered if he had ruined her with his quick conclusion to her years of careful pain. He had thought, at the time, that it was the best thing he could offer her. An end, of some sort, to her suffering.

She acted normal enough in her interactions with him, for the most part. But though she smiled at him, and laughed or teased when he grunted some sarcastic comment or another—though she was as warm and inviting as ever—she seemed pensive. He would glance at her when she wasn't paying attention, and see her eyes focused on something he couldn't touch. When she caught his gaze, she'd smile and laugh as though nothing was wrong, but he knew she was thinking about the brown skulls of her sisters, the muddy silver on Natalie's bony wrist.

He tried to remember how he had taken care of Jimmy. It was useless: he couldn't recall it, not really. Besides, she had never been a Jimmy to him.

He sat with her and watched her pack her things.

"There's nothing here for me now," she'd said lightly, smiling just a bit sardonically when he'd demanded that she come live in his penthouse—well, _asked,_ to be honest; it had been phrased as a command but she'd _known_.

He brought her lists and phone numbers to every cemetary near his home. He'd lounged on the couch with deceptive ease, eyeing her narrowly as she paced the kitchen, calling and questioning each of them. In less than a week and a half, he had men moving her boxes and crates out, and had approved his credit card number—which she had stubbornly tried to reject until he'd growled at her and pinned her to the bed—to pay for the shipment, burial, and headstones she'd ordered.

Part of him wanted to keep her in ease, to do the work for her, but he recognized something in her that needed to keep moving. He watched as she got her affairs in order during the day, and at night he fucked her every way he could think of.

The Rheuse woman had helped her out in the business arena, made suggestions. Toby would be working as a court-consultant via laptop and phone, especially for cases involving children and mutants. Margo had her new number, and October had made it clear that she'd wanted to be able to get wherever she'd be needed. Margo had made some calls, and soon it became clear that Toby Morgan was "back," so to speak: resurrected in her old habits. She'd regained contact with a number of former agencies she'd worked with before the kidnapping, and was involved in a nice-sized network of mutant- and children's-rights groups.

Bobby Roman had been emancipated during the seven weeks that Victor was gone; he was now enrolled at the Institute's central location and, like Margo, had a number he could reach October at. She said goodbye to the two of them, as well as Rogue—who apparently viewed her as a big sister—and Logan, and had promised to visit them. She had tried to say goodbye to McQuay, but he wouldn't take her calls and had apparently sunk into hermitlike solitude. Sadly and reluctantly, she had let it go.

Finally—and thank God for it, in Creed's opinion—they were leaving the shoddy little apartment behind. After he'd had her stuff moved, she'd looked around her apartment wistfully, tugging at the pretty linen curtain and touching the lopsided table. When they closed the door and locked it, she traced the letters carved into the door.

_Courtesy of FoH._

Then she left the apartment building without looking back, flanked by Creed and Cujo. He liked the way she left it. Tall, shoulders back, eyes unwavering. Like a warrior.

They drove for hours, with both the dog and the woman dozing in and out. At one point, he'd deliberately goaded her about not she being allowed to continue some of her more risky volunteer work in the new city. She had fought him, briefly, and it gave him a sharp thrill to see that she still had fight in her. She was thinking, hurting, mulling over what had happened—

But she sure as hell wasn't broken.

He'd finally agreed to let her do what she wanted in the city if she wouldn't put up a fuss about him hiring a bodyguard and driver, and when she'd protested that a bodyguard would be stupidly obvious, he had grinned savagely and said, _Not the kind I hire._ He already had a kid in mind—Gavin Gambols. The kid was trustworthy, savage, brutal without hesitation. He blended in well and knew how to be discreet—not some prick in a black suit with dark glasses and an earphone. Plus, Creed knew from the time they'd worked together that Gambols had once admired the famous October Morgan; he'd jump at the chance to watch her back now.

They stopped and dined halfway through the drive: three rib-eyes for him and a delicately-flavored fish called Dorado in coconut sauce with rice for her.

He was already starting the process of fattening her up.

She had shifted in the car for the second leg of the trip, running her hand up and down his thigh while he drove. It was driving him mad, but he wanted to wait to fuck her till they got to the suite. He was planning on screwing her in every room of the goddamn apartment, on every piece of furniture, in the tub and against each wall. He was planning on _breaking_ things.

He practically owned the building, after all: when he'd first decided to live there, as their most prestigious tenant, he'd made clear that he needed to know he could trust the staff. He had weeded through them himself, picking out those whose loyalty was unquestionable, and those whom he distrusted. The managers and owners had made sure to dismiss the employees he didn't like.

He was glad, now, that he had done so. At the time it had been a whim, the sole purpose being to protect his shit and his peace-of-mind—or what passed for it. After all, he could handle any personal damage that anyone could inflict, but he'd rather not have his carefully-cultivated wealth get torn apart, or have his personal space invaded by unwelcome guests. Now, however, he realized that it was triply-important that the people who knew where he lived and who he was could be trusted. October's life might depend on it.

When the car finally stopped, she was confused. It was late evening, dark, and she said, "This isn't—" but then realized he had brought her to the cemetary, not his home.

Silently, gritting his teeth, he led her to the three fresh plots. The air was cold and wet with autumn night. The cemetary had been a good choice: only a few blocks from the apartment. In warm weather, she could walk there with Cujo and Gambols, if she wanted. The cemetary itself was remarkably beautiful: there were flowering pear trees and lilac bushes, and the graves were kept scraped free of leaves and debris even when the deceased no longer had family to tend them.

October knelt in the grass and ran a hand lightly over the new, pale-green blades that had sprouted on her sisters' graves. Dew came off on her hands. Her fingers followed their names on the tombstones in the dark. There were four headstones, neatly marked: Geneivieve, Natalie, Elizabeth, and October Morgan. Some day, Creed forced himself to acknowledge, Toby would be interred here as well. There would be an end-date etched in the blank space on her stone. The thought enraged him, but he swallowed it, not wanting to ruin this moment for her.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and his fists, digging bloody gouges into his own palms, which promptly healed and split open again.

"My girls," she whispered. Rising, she took his hand and traced the sinews in it. "Victor? Let's go _home."_

It was the first time she'd seen the suite. She was aghast, and it was good for his ego. Not that he had any problems there; still, he grinned with savage pride when she first gasped and took everything in.

The first floor was a sprawling studio, including a luxurious lounge space with an expansive entertainment system and an elaborate kitchen. Separated by a glass partition from the rest of the central space was a private pool, shimmering with blue lights. A large study and library swung off to one corner, and an armored room with heavy punching bags and other equipment that had obviously been built specifically to (mostly) withstand Creed's aggression.

The suite boasted a spiral staircase in the center, which coiled up into a lofted second floor which was only half the size of the floor below and almost functioned as a balcony-apartment. The bed up on the superior floor was massive—October had to hoist herself up to get onto it. It was high enough to nearly be at Victor's waist. Laughing, she had sprawled herself on it. Stretched out to her maximum length, from toes to fingertips, she only spanned two-thirds the width of it. He had swallowed a growl at the sight of her there, the tangle of her blond hair. He had tried to picture her naked against the velvet and silk, moaning at the feel of the luxurious fabric.

He added the mental note to get some furs on the bed.

The bathroom, also located in the loft, was beautiful: warm pale stone tiled the floors and walls, and it looked like something from Classical Greece. The tub was nearly as large as the bed, with a faucet on each side, and the shower was entirely glass.

"Wow, Victor," she breathed, sounding awed. "I think your bathroom is the size of my entire apartment."

The entire exterior wall of the suite was windowed, allowing for an airy, spacious feel. A plush chaise lounge was positioned there with a new chenille blanket in blood-red, and there was a small endtable with a lamp. On the table, someone had set a copy of _A Lovely Love Story_ and _The Little Prince._ She smiled, leafing through the books, and moved to the window. Against the glass stood the flowering trees and lily-plants he'd had shipped from her apartment. Looking down, she was suddenly overwhelmed by vertigo. It seemed like miles till the glittering street below.

"I'm told the view is beautiful, especially at night," he purred, his voice sinuous and rich and dark, curling around her. She basked in the low, dangerous sound of it as he moved to stand behind her and folded his massive hands over her shoulders. "I've never looked, m'self." Even right now, he found something more enticing to stare at: the tops of her breasts, the shadow between them, just hinted at over the edge of her shirt.

He was planning on keeping her naked as often as possible.

The city was laid out at their feet in a series of stars and flickering lights. She smiled up at him. "It's perfect." He understood she meant more than just the view.

"F'you need anything else—more space—" His voice was a growl, almost threatening, but she knew he didn't mean for it to be that way.

Instead, she laughed at him. "Victor, I lived in an apartment the size of a refrigerator box. This is more than fine. I might not know what to do with myself with all this room."

_I can think of plenty of things to do with your pretty self, frail._

"I just mean I can clear out some of my stuff to make room if you want it," he said sharply. "I don't want you thinkin' this isn't your home."

She leaned back against him. "I love you. And anywhere you are—that's home."

He tried not to show his pleasure at her words, licking a tongue over his fangs and growling instead. "Molly Spinner comes in on Mondays and Thursdays to clean," he said, abruptly changing the topic. "If she's sick, Janice will come. Oscar Milford tends my room service; in his absence, I'll pick a temp and let you know who it is. They don't talk much, and we keep it that way, you hear me? Don't go opening the door to no strangers. I'm hiring a bodyguard and driver—anywhere you want to go."

"I can do some of these things on my own, you know," she said dryly, smiling up at him over her shoulder. "I don't necessarily need a baby sitter."

He scraped his claws lightly over her arms, drawing a shiver of pleasure from her. She arched in his arms and he leaned further in, crossing his forearms over her and filling each palm with her soft breasts.

"I know you can, but being mine comes with certain…disadvantages…as well as advantages." She shuddered against him as he massaged her, rolling her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. He leaned down, rubbing his 'chops against her throat and purring in her ear. "I aim to keep you around as long as I can."

She licked her lips, her hands clutching his muscled forearms as she tried to pull her attention back together. "Not to mention the FoH is sure to know I was involved in the deaths of three of their men," she conceded with a grimace, seeing the wisdom of his words and trying not to melt into a puddle on the floor.

Creed said nothing, scraping his fangs over her shoulder instead. He had plans—plans that Toby didn't need to know about. Especially if it made her more open to relying on him—and him alone—for her needs.

"This is such a huge place," October murmured now, sounding vaguely worried. "It'll be lonely when you're not here."

He grunted. "It's a shame then that I have to leave now." He leered at her. "I would have liked a nice warm homecoming."

She blinked, trying to turn in his arms, but he held her firmly, dropping his mouth the nape of her neck. "Are you serious?" She didn't sound angry or upset, just confused. "I don't want to sleep all alone in this huge place for the first time—"

He nipped her lips sharply, drawing just a bit of blood, and effectively shutting her up. "I just gotta wrap up some loose ends, frail. I'll be back in a coupla days. You get used to the apartment while I'm gone." He tweaked both nipples and she gasped, leaning into his hands and slithering against him deliciously, trapped between his massive chest and broad arms. "Dream of me, frail," he commanded in a low growl, making her shiver. "Think of all the things I'm gonna do to you when I see you in a few days. I wanna hear every word of it when I get back."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

He had wanted to do this last week, but had thought it would be better to stay with October, at least till he got her where he wanted her. It was true as well that he needed her out of the city and safe with an alibi before he made his final play. No need to complicate things. Unfortunately, now it would take a couple days to get where he needed, and to get _what_ he needed.

Besides, though clearly not the best place to store bodies, the barn was situated on private property owned by his employers, and he had known the three former FoH recruits would be left untouched.

With that in mind, he drove all the way back out to the abandoned barn and threw the bloated, insect-riddled bodies in the back of the truck he'd rented. They were slippery and greasy, filled with two-week-old sour air. The skin was melting off their muscles, and though they smelled like rancid meat—almost painful to his enhanced senses—he smiled to think of what he would do with them.

Maybe waiting had been better anyway. It would be more likely to traumatize the person he was leaving them with.

And with that thought, he pulled up across the street from Frederick Mendohl's huge house.

It was nighttime again at this point—early in the morning, actually. All the good people of the suburbs were tucked away in bed. Creed got out of the car and sniffed the air, grinning and sticking his hands in his pockets. He loved the smell of the 'burbs.

They smelled like ignorance and easy blood.

Grinning and humming a jaunty tune, Creed cut the phone lines and the power to Mendohl's house. He didn't need light to see what he was doing, and the streetlamps provided enough illumination to keep things nice and dim and scary for Mendohl's weak human eyes. He'd already put in an order to get the lawyer's cell phone service cut off at midnight.

Striding back to the truck, Creed flung one of the slick, rotting bodies over his shoulder, then knotted his fists in the shirts of the other two corpses, hauling them easily out of the truck and striding up the walkway to the big green front door.

He kicked it open without any real effort. He was sure the noise had jolted Mendohls from his sleep, and that the greasy little man had started, not knowing what the sound was that had woken him. With that thought in mind, he kept his strides heavy, making no attempt to hide his presence. He almost hoped the little bastard tried to put a call in to the police, just because it always scared 'em more when they realized they were cut off from the outside world.

He threw the bodies down in the living room, watching bemusedly as they slithered against each other. His nostrils flared when he caught Mendohls' scent on the stairs.

To be fair, the man didn't _look_ greasy. His black, balding hair was clean and neat even at four in the morning, and his pale skin looked sickly with fear, but not oil.

The thing was, he _smelled_ greasy. Dukes used to have a pick-up truck he'd drive around in the rare moments when they were back in the states. The backseat was crammed with old McDonald's boxes and wrappers from years past. In the heat of summer, even after it had been cleaned, the truck still smelled like stale fry-oil. It was this odor—soap over old grease, combined with the acrid sweat of sleep and fear—that almost made Creed's eyes water when Mendohls crept nervouly down the stairs, a rifle in his hands.

A _rifle. _

"You gonna use that on me, little shit?" Creed asked with a grin, baring his fangs. He rocked on the balls of his feet, excitement brewing. _Try it, you pussy motherfucker. See what happens._

The man hadn't noticed the pile of bodies yet. His eyes were locked on Creed's, recognizing the gaze of a predator. Understanding flickered behind the round spectacles.

"You were at the Roman case a few weeks back," he said slowly. "You were sitting with—"

He broke off, and then his gaze swept the room, fastening on the pile of bodies. Mendohls staggered back on the stairs and dropped the rifle, one hand cupped to his mouth. He looked like he wasgoing to vomit.

In less than a second, Creed had crossed the room, reached through the bars on the stair-banister, and grabbed the lawyer by the throat of his pajamas, yanking him back through the railings. Wood rods splintered and flew and the man screamed first at the swift movement, then the pain. Turning swiftly, Creed launched him through the air, letting him land on Briggs, Blume, and Oliver.

"You recognize these guys?" Creed asked, almost jovial.

When Mendohls realized what cushioned his fall, he screamed again. Their skins, which had begun to decay quickly in the cold nights and hot days out in the barn, slithered off their bodies as he scrambled over them, peeling away from the greasy muscles.

"I'll grant you they're not as pretty as they used to be."

The lawyer choked, his round body convulsing as he tried not to vomit all over the corpses. The smell was pervading the living room now: rotten meat and sewage. The three men had, like all corpses, excreted all bodily fluides when they'd finally died, and most of it was still with them.

"I was thinking you could get rid of 'em for me. I know you've got all sorts of connections to make bodies like this disappear. Grown men, innocent little sisters, whatever. Am I right, little shit?" He thought it was a perfect new name for the famous Frederick Mendohls. _Little shit._ Inconsequential, infantile, with some idiot-sense of his own self-importance.

Mendohls gagged and Creed rolled his eyes, gripping the man by a handful of thinning black hair and dragging him up off the bodies.

"Listen to me, Freddie," he growled, his voice cold and threatening. "D'you remember who these guys are?"

Mendohls nodded, choking on his own fear and bile.

Creed shook him so hard his teeth rattled. "Who are they?"

"Three…FoH employees…"

Victor sneered, casting a pointedly derisive glance at the rotting bodies. "Maybe once upon a time."

Mendohls gulped on a sob and Creed threw him back against the bodies, disgusted. The attourney scrambled away more quickly this time, curling up on the other side of the room while the large mutant stalked between them.

"I made a mistake, Freddie. Kind of, anyway. I'm not the type given to making mistakes." He bared his teeth in a feral smile. "I really hate admitting them."

He paused, crouching down to invade Mendohls' space and grin in his face. The man was almost blubbering now.

"Listen to me, Freddie," he said kindly.

When Mendohls didn't respond, Creed struck him solidly across the face, knocking him to the side.

"Let's try again. Listen to me, little shit."

The lawyer's weak eyes fastened on Creed's, and he gulped, then wavered: "I'm listening."

"I killed these assholes over here; you know why?"

"They ki-killed the Morgan kids."

"That's right. You're catching on, little shit. The problem is—I fucked them up way too good, and I killed _all_ of them. I should have left one alive, right? Maybe missing a few limbs, but bright enough to tell the tale. Right, little shit? Warn the rest of you assholes of what happens when you play with Victor Creed's toys."

Mendohls eyes flickered and Creed smirked broadly, flashing his fangs. They gleamed sharply in the dim light. "Yeah, I killed the two bastards you sent to break into her apartment, too, Freddie, you pussy."

Mendohls' throat worked desperately.

"So you see I've gotta problem. Who's gonna tell the FoH to back off my things, huh?" He grinned and leaned closer. "That's where you come in, little shit."

He cracked his knuckles and lengthened his claws, letting Mendohls watch. "You're gonna take care of these three bastards. You, or your little FoH friends. And I'm gonna give you something to permanently remember me by, just in case this little gift—" He gestured to the pile of putrid cadavers. "—doesn't make a lasting impact."

Without warning, he slammed one fist into Mendohls' face. A sickening crunch filled the air and Mendohls screamed nasally. Grinning, Creed pistoned his fists rapidly—_one-two-three—_against Mendohls' face. He debated going deeper—hitting a kidney, busting the man's clavicle—but he wanted all the damage clearly visible.

That way, when the little shit looked in the mirror every morning for the rest of his life, he could see his own misshapen face and _remember._

In three hits, Mendohls was sporting a smashed-in nose, cracked jaw, and a crushed orbital socket. He was nearly passed out when Creed raked a claw over the man's face, deep enough to scar but not kill. His claws actually bared bone over the cheekbone, and cartilage over the bridge of Mendohls' nose.

The man was trying to cry, but also he could do was wheeze and choke and gag on the hot pain lancing through him.

In a deep, low voice, Creed hissed, "My girl's gonna keep doing what she does. Maybe even more widespread now. You're gonna hear about her at every turn. She's gonna fight you every step of the way, d'you hear me? So you tell all your little dick-sucking friends that this will look like a skinned knee in comparison to the next guy who orders a hit on my frail. If anything happens to her—I mean _anything,_ whether it's a car accident or a mugger, whether you're responsible or not—I come after all of you. Pick you off one by one, so you know I'm on the hunt." He grinned, even though the man couldn't see him through the haze of pain. "And you'll be the last, Freddie. I'll make it nice and slow. Tear your spine out through your mouth, one vertebra at a time. It'll take days. You'll be begging me on your hands and knees for death before I'm done. You understand me, little shit?"

The man nodded, snuffling and choking on his own blood and spit.

"I can't hear you, Freddie."

"Yes," the man choked out, blood spraying Creed's face. "I—I understand you."

Creed didn't bother to wipe the blood away. His grin grew wider. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page, little shit."

He rose fluidly, landing a solid kick in the lawyer's side. Something snapped—a rib, probably—and the man howled.

Victor grinned even more widely, shoving his bloody hands in his pockets and loping to the door, humming the same pleasant tune under his breath as he went.

"I_ like_ this job," he said as he went, smiling.

He pulled off at a hotel once he hit the city, slapped down a platinum card, and showered. He wanted to get back to October as soon as possible, but he didn't want to go to her covered in blood and shit and rot. Plus, the smell of it was making his lips curl.

He devoured three steaks brought up by room service, slept for an hour or two, and hit the road in the morning, trading in the truck for a sleek, spacious sportscar at a nearby rental center.

When he finally reached the penthouse, he keyed himself in silently. Cujo padded up to him a moment later, tilting his head and huffing before laying down by the closed door. Victor could hear the shower running upstairs, swiped a beer—the good stuff—from the fridge and followed the scent of steaming water and October's shampoo.

He pushed the door open quietly and leaned against the frame, tilting his head to watch her. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a cloud of soap and suds. It gave him a clear view, through the foggy glass, of the line of her body—the curve of her waist and breasts, the roundness of her ass. She let the water stream over her, the weight of it pulling her hair down and straightening it. Wet, the tangles smoothed out and the length of it fell to the small of her back.

He felt his cock twitch and harden in his pants as he lounged there, watching her as she swept a washcloth over he legs, her stomach, over her wet, silky breasts. His mouth watered.

As much as he'd fantasized about having her locked up in this tower for his own pleasure and use, he hadn't realized the perks might include coming home to find her like this. She eased a hand over the muscles in her shoulders, as though they were bothering her, and stretched, arching her back even as her other hand continued to press lazily against her breasts. His nostrils flared. She was aroused—just a little. Not to the point of pleasuring herself, but enough so he could smell it. He wondered if she was thinking about him.

When she dipped the cloth carelessly between her thighs, he moved, stalking forward silently until he was within reach of the glass door. When his shadow fell on her, she gasped, her eyes flying up to meet his. At the sight of him, the fragrance of her arousal increased tenfold, and he grinned, intoxicated with power at the scent of it.

He raised one eyebrow, smirking. Sometimes he didn't believe his own luck. "Little frail in a cage," he purred. "Didn't I promise to make you blush?" He prowled past the door, around the three glass walls, eyeing her from every angle as she stood as frozen as a startled deer. His eyes glinted predatorily. "By all means," he rumbled, gesturing with his chin and raising his other brow to meet he first one. He dipped his head toward the washcloth, his eyes on hers. "Don't let me stop you from soaping up that soft pink skin of yours."

She flushed at his words already, turning to keep him in her sight.

"Come on, sugar. Give the bad man a show."

Nervously, she lifted the washcloth, her hand shaking a little. He grinned to see it and leaned against one of the shower walls. She moved it carefully over her throat, her eyes on his, and he watched the soap slide down her curves, over her nipples. When she moved the cloth downward over her breasts and gasped, jumping, his grin grew wider, more feral.

"Feel a little rougher than you expected?" he asked mildly, but his eyes were savage. He looked like he wanted to devour her. It was one of the looks that October could never be sure of: did he want to have sex with her, or eat her alive? The scent of her fear-spiced desire only served to make him grin more widely, his sharp incisors bared like an animal's.

When she faltered, her blush spreading from her cheeks to her throat, then staining the tops of her breasts, he grinned. "Just think of me, honey. Think of me—_pounding you into the floor."_ Her breathing hitched the blush spread farther. He watched with a cruel gloating as she swept the washcloth up from the neatly-trimmed curls on her mons, over her soft abdomen and up across her ribcage. With both hands, she cupped her breasts, squeezing and gently pulling. He growled, shifting just a bit to try to ease some of the pressure in his jeans.

"Victor," she murmured, sounding breathless. "I _need_ you."

He gritted his teeth, restraining himself, though the words made him want to lunge at her. "Damn straight, frail." She _needed_ him. _Him. _He watched her manipulate her own skin, growing hard and heavy. As her arousal increased and her breath began coming in short pants, he slid a hand over his belt buckle, dipping his head to watch her more closely. The flush from the heat of the shower and her own self-conciousness had spread to nearly every space on the trunk of her body, even over her shoulders and upper arms, even down into her thighs.

"Lower, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice a husky and demanding snarl.

She blushed even harder, her dark eyes wide and pinned by his gaze, and then lifted one leg elegantly to rest on the small shelf set into the wall. She swept the cloth over her inner thighs, then between them. He lifted himself from his lounging position, moving slowly around the glass cage again with a predator's loping, silent strides. She bit her lip, watching him, her nervousness and arousal heavy in the steamy air.

"I just might keep you in there forever," he rumbled. "I think I like the idea of you all caged up and touching yourself, wanting me."

His words set something off in her. When her brow furrowed and she gasped at the beginnings of an orgasm, he yanked open the glass door, nearly ripping it from its hinges as he reached for her, pulling her from the shower. Her slick skin slid right through his grasp as she darted past him, out into the steaming bathroom.

He hadn't expected her to put up a fight, and was so startled he let her go. At the emptiness of his hands, he growled something inaudible, his eyes flashing over to hers. She'd snagged a huge towel and was tangling herself in it, flashing him a look that was both sassy and scared.

"You fuckin' tease," he snarled, pleased at the opportunity to pursue her. His eyes narrowed as he matched her step-for-step. "I'm gonna make you squeal like a trapped animal."

She looked up at him through her lashes, smiling coyly as she moved out of his reach, but he noticed her hands were shaking. The spiced musk of her desire was heavy in the air, along with that sweet sclear scent of apprehension.

"I missed you," she offered up, like a peace treaty or a surrender, backing toward the door as he advanced on her.

He remembered what she'd said before he'd left: _this is such a huge place…it'll be lonely when you're not here._

As though reading his mind, her lips twitched. "My, what a big house you have, Mr Creed," she murmured teasingly, glancing over her shoulder as she looked past the bathroom door and prepared to run.

His growl grew louder, more mocking. He bared his teeth and tightened his fists, letting the muscles in his arms bulge and flex threateningly as he stepped toward her, ever a predator.

"The better to hunt you in, sugar."

She gave a short shout of shaky, exultant laughter and took off, darting out of the bathroom and away from him, the towel flapping behind her. It was a futile gesture: he could track her easily. By the dampness she left on the floor, by the soft slap of her feet and her thudding heart, her labored breathing.

By the smell of her. Almonds and musk, and just a twinge of fear.

He was waiting when she rounded the corner, nearly running into him, and she gasped and started back. He snaked out a claw and grabbed the towel, snapping it away from her body as she took frantic steps backward. She gave a startled cry at her sudden nakedness, her arms wrapping around her ample chest and across her waist, trying to shield her body from him.

He grinned, testing the tip of one fang with his tongue as he advanced. "Better run, kitten," he purred, and she turned and fled. He could have caught up with her easily, lifted her into the air and braced her against a wall high enough to bury his face in her thighs, if he wanted. Instead, he let her go, eyeing the firmness of her rear as she darted away like a little deer.

She was still flushed from the shower, and wet.

He walked slowly, at times utterly silent, and at other times clicking his claws on any available surface, so she could hear him coming. She was scampering down the stairs, trying to be quiet, when he launched himself from the lower level onto the staircase in behind her.

"I'm gonna do things to you that haven't been invented yet," he whispered, his mouth just a hair's breadth from her ear.

She jolted and stumbled, and he caught her easily around the waist, slinging her around and lowering her quickly to the stairs. Before she could even process the sudden change in her position, he was working his way up her body, anchoring her ankles with bruising force as he nipped his way up the insides of her thighs. She struggled against him, and he gripped her tighter, easily braceleting the slight ankles with his claws.

"Mmm, helpless," he purred. "All opened up for me." God, her thighs were still damp from the shower, and her arousal was heavy in the air.

When he rasped his tongue over her, prodding and sucking and nipping carefully at her soft, wet flesh, she tried to reach for him, to curl her fingers in his hair. At that, he'd snarled, his hands flying from her ankles to her wrists, pinned them behind her. The angle of the stairs foced her chest to arch toward him, her breasts heavy and aching.

He chuckled. "Sweetheart, you shoulda given yourself that orgasm in the shower when you had the chance." He shifted upward and slid into her: smooth, heavy, stretching her to her limit. Savagely, he gloated, "'Caught you."

A low moan worked its way from her throat, and she tilted her head back, exposing her vulnerable flesh to him. He clamped his teeth lightly on her jugular, drawing just the tiniest bit of blood to whet his appetite, and worried the skin there in a clear display of dominance. She tilted her head back farther, giving up all of herself as he gained speed, driving into her as hard as he could while still being hyperaware of her delicate bones, and the awkward position in which she was laying. He braced her hips with one forearm tucked under the small of her back, drawing gasps from her as he slammed into her and slid one smooth knuckle between them.

To his surprise, her own hand snaked backward, under her left thigh, and then he felt her fingers close on him, gently massaging his sack as he drove into her. He let out a feral roar, surprised at her audacity, the tension coiling in his muscles as he jolted against her. He shifted her fingers, tugging sharply at her clit, and she bowed backward with a cry and came just an instant before he did.

For a brief second, he lay sprawled on the stairs. _"Fuck,"_ he muttered incredulously.

She laughed softly, exhaustedly, and he rose up swiftly, his legs surprisingly watery, before swinging her over his shoulder and moving to the bathroomagain and setting her on the counter. He filled up the giant bath and plucked her up, tumbling her into the water and grinning at how the huge tub engulfed her. Everything had been designed to his comfort, and as a result, she looked even more fragile than she really was.

He liked it, though. Her delicacy. They way he could break her, and the way she offered everything up to him. He wondered, briefly, who had the real power.

He took her again in the bath, slowly this time, as gently as he knew how, tormenting her every way he could think of. When he was done, he let her lean back against his chest, clawing his way through the wet tangles of her hair, now thoroughly knotted from his rough-housing. One thumb coasted the plane of her cheekbone, the carefully brushed the shadow under her eye, careful not to knick her flesh with his claw.

"You haven't been sleepin'," he said at last. She was better by far than she had been two weeks earlier, after he'd taken her to see her girls. Better, in some ways, than she had ever been before. Still, the bruises under her eyes ate at him, and the fact that she wasn't dozing even now—when she always had before, after sex—gnawed at his bones.

She hesitated, then confessed, "I can't sleep. I've tried." A sly half-smile he could see from his angle above her shoulder. "I was lonely."

"You could sleep now."

The smile faded. "Maybe."

He didn't point out that she was exhausted, that she had to be after the way he'd just used her. Twice.

"I used to see them in my sleep, those first couple days."

A pause. Her sisters. To be honest, the memory of their fragile bones haunted him too. Not because they were dead little girls, but because he knew one day it would be her. For now, things were good. It would seem like a happy ending to any outsider. It couldn't last, though.

"Now I don't see them, and it's _worse."_

He tilted his head, unseen behind her, and waited.

It paid off. In a voice that trembled, she said at last, "I don't have anyone anymore. I don't have anything to hold on to."

She sounded lost, and he realized after a moment that the pain and grief and _not-knowing _of her sisters had somewhere along the line become a comfort to her, something she wrapped herself in. A false armor. It was better this way, he still knew. Now that she knew what had happened. Though she was struggling, she was still doing better than she had been before. She wasn't static and scared anymore, stuck in a little apartment full of nightmares and working in a little job where she couldn't fulfill her own abilities. She wasn't stationary anymore. She was _moving._

But he understood it. For him, when Jimmy'd left. He'd held onto the anger like it could save him. It had become comfortable to him, a home. A natural part of who and what he was. For her, it might not have been rage, but it was something just as powerful. And even that had been taken away from her now.

"You have me," he said, his voice rough. He tried to sound irritated—anything to keep from sounding soft—and didn't know if he'd succeeded.

"It's different," she said quietly. "You're wild. You don't belong to anyone."

He was pleased that she saw him this way, and almost growled his satisfaction.

But she was wrong.

He lifted her up, turning her in the tub so she was straddling him now. Pressing a sharp claw to the underside of her chin, he glowered down at her. "I belong to you. M'yours." The words were casual, gruff, like they meant nothing.

She stilled. "What?"

"I'm yours," he growled more distinctly, almost warningly. "And remember it, because I won't say it again. Ever." He could taste the lie in his mouth, but disregarded it. Fuck, if he wanted to say it again, that was his choice, right?

"But—" A momentary silence. He watched impassively, not giving anything away, while understanding crept into her eyes. It seemed like all the tension of the last two weeks flooded from her system, and more. Her shoulders sloped gracefully, and the skin at her temples eased—a slight furrow he'd never even noticed between her brows smoothed out. In that moment, she looked more open and vulnerable and content than he'd ever seen her.

_Anything she wanted. _

And if she wanted someone she thought she could take care of, dammitall to hell if he wouldn't play along. Victor Creed as no idiot: he might be bigger, faster, stronger, more powerful than her—but hadn't she already proven, with her careful ministrations and kindnesses, her concern for his well-being, that she was capable of giving him things he'd never had before? That she was filling up the empty spaces in his life?

So, yeah. He belonged to her. After all, he _had_ decided long ago that he would give her whatever she needed. That he would be her claws. And hadn't he told Dean McQuay he'd do whatever it took to keep her?

"Victor," she said quietly, her hands moving to his face. He wondered if she would push his buttons, rub it in that it had been he who had submitted first, allowing—for a moment—her to dominate him entirely with that simple phrase. If he hadn't been so very aware of the fact that she'd been through the wringer today, that he needed to be more careful with her fragile body, he might have taken her right then and there, just to reasert his dominance. A warning growl started in his throat—an empty threat, he knew. But her thumb glided over his lip, and he stilled, waiting. She had a soft, promising look in her eyes.

"You've done so much for me," she whispered. "I've never had anyone take my part like this before."

He knew she was referring to the three FoH kidnappers, but he grunted, just glad she hadn't tried to make a big deal out of his admission moments before. "Shut up and go to sleep," he growled uncomfortably, wishing he hadn't turned her to face him now. He pulled his face away from her hands and pressed her face against his shoulder so he wouldn't have to meet her gaze.

She resisted, turning her face toward him and tilting it upward, tracing the line of his jaw with one wet finger. "I _am _yours too, Victor. You know that, right?"

He stilled. Of course he knew, but it was another thing entirely to hear her admit it. It sent all his possessive instincts roaring.

"I _promise_. Every bit of me, inside and out." She placed a slim hand on his cheek, turning his face toward hers. "I'm _yours."_

It made sense to him: the sudden submission, the surrender, the easing of all the tension he'd never even noticed in her slight, soft body. All these years, alone, desperate to find the girls who had once been hers. Of course she would want someone who she thought she could take care of, someone who would belong to her. He guessed she hadn't figured him for someone who would be able to stomach that: letting someone else claim him like this, just once. But he'd meant it when he'd told McQuay he'd do anything to keep her around, and if that's what she wanted—

Had wanted all along, he realized, her voice ringing in his ears: _You don't know how. You'd resent it. I'd never even _try_ to put a collar on you._

Well, he could do it. If anyone could fucking be what this woman needed, it was him, goddammit.

_Whatever it takes._

He gripped her jaw fiercely, but careful not to bruise her flesh. Turning her face toward him again, _wanting _to see the look in her eyes now, he growled, "You're mine." Then: "Say it again."

"I'm yours, Victor."

The words came easily to her lips, naturally, as though she not only didn't mindsaying them but as though they had fulfilled her, and he knew it was only because he had admitted to being hers first.

He tried on an expression of savage pleasure, of smugness and viciousness. He didn't know if it had worked, but judging by the tender, amused look on her face, it hadn't quite. "That's my girl." She ran her hands along his chest, gliding them through the smooth water, and he curled an arm around her shoulders, drawing her back into him. "_My_ girl." Then: "Say it."

Breathily, happily, her voice thready with sweetness and surrender, she complied. "I'm yours, Victor. For as long as I live."

**vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv**

Here ends _The Victor._

Look for the start of an upcoming sequel

in the next three to four weeks.


	22. Author's Notes & Sequels

Would you believe me if I told you _The Victor _was originally intended to be just a one-shot?

Somehow it morphed into over 250 pages of elaborate characterization (and chapters full of typos that my spellcheck refused to acknowledge). And from there, a universe was formed, mostly at the request of readers: a quadshot "interlude" was created, as well as a doubleshot "aside," and now—finally—the formal epilogue (also referred to as "the real sequel") has begun. The end is in sight. The story is told.

I also have to note, just because I think it's flattering (if a bit shocking) that I have noticed some of…"lore," for lack of a better word…of _The Victor_ is finding its way into some other fanfiction. I read other "vicfics" (as I affectionately term our collective writings) and discover that in small, minor ways, some of them (certainly not all) are kind of like "coming home," usually in the minor details but sometimes in character interpretation and other areas. It's… disconcerting, sometimes, but it's _always, always _an honor. I never ever thought that _The Victor,_ something I started writing on a whim, would become so well-received and it means a lot to me. Thank you so much for your support in this—it has been a pleasure and a joy to share it with you.

Anyway, the purpose of this post is to let those of you who expressed an interest in the epilogue/sequel/series-of-one-shots know that it has been posted. Below is a summary of the Octoberverse installments (in order) for your perusing pleasure.

_**The Victor. **_Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VC/OC, "Origins"-style, thanks. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment! Fraught with dangerous romance and, eventually, tons of action. Rated M for language, dark sex, and violence.

_Complete._

_**Goes the Spoils: An Interlude.**_ Someone's got a grudge and has decided that the best weapon to use is always a lady. Rated for sex and general mayhem/violence.

_Complete._

_**The Mouth: An Aside. **_Deadpool double-shot. Siryn, aka Theresa Rourke Cassidy, is a student at the X-mansion. One night she spots a mysterious masked man outside on the X-mansion grounds. A movie rendition of a comic theme. Rated for implied sex, language, and possible squickiness.

_Complete._

_**We Don't Believe in Chance. **_This is the end of the line. A series of one-shots: the stories of the peripheral mutants and their perspectives on the relationship between October Morgan and Victor Creed. Rated for language, squick factor, and one (I think?) smutty moment.

_In Progress._

I have been working on some non-Octoberverse vicfics, but I don't know if they'll ever get finished. If I post them, I want the characters to be significantly different, so I need to formulate at least some different interpretations of Vic's character, and build from the ground up a new OC for him (I have ideas, but nothing solid). After writing _The Mouth, _I also had a hankering to write a shortfic featuring Jubilation Lee and Wolvie, but I doubt that will happen. I've also been considering re-writing _The Magic Trick,_ which was also originally written on a lark and could be significantly improved, and I happily content with my one-shot _Inevitable,_ which was well-received by a specific few. For right now, however, my focus is on refining the one shots featured in _We Don't Believe in Chance,_ and drawing this incredible adventure to a close.

Thank you, again, for adventuring with me.


	23. This Story is Being Relocated

Dear readers, whom I am so grateful for:

Every few years I purge my account. This year I have decided that this story, along with some of the others on my author page, must go.

However, because it has been so loved, I've decided to repost it over at [ www . fanfiction u/4248357/October-Morgan ]. Remove the spaces to access the site (thanks for those of you who let me know the link was not working!:) I missed you guys, by the way!).

I'm going to do this chapter by chapter, (hopefully) polishing up the content as I go. I may engage in some other projects in the Octoberverse as I go—just small ones. After everything has been transferred over, the pieces will be deleted from this page.

I want to thank you all, again, for your kindness and support in this endeavor. I can't believe the following that October Morgan has garnered, and I appreciate all your dear words.

Love,

Fyre


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